Written in Fine Print
by Solitary Shadow
Summary: There's so much more to the WVBA than just Little Mac and his success story. A collection of oneshots about the boxers' lives. Seventeenth chapter, 'Edgewise' up. Aran and Narcis together equals nothing but trouble, Darkfic, no pairings.
1. 01: Misunderstanding

**Disclaimer:** Punch-Out!! belongs to Nintendo and so does all the boxers.

**Author's Note:** So I've finally done it, folks. I've created an anthology for Punch-Out!! - it seems I do that with almost every fandom I'm in. As said in the summary, those stories are oneshots (unless otherwise stated) and may contain slash or not. I can think of at least seven scenarios that doesn't involve any slash, so all seems to be good there. If a story is slashy, I will be warning you beforehand in the summary and the author's note. Most couples will probably involve Glass Joe because he's the easiest to slash with someone else (ahemKaiserahem). Sue me. xD

The anthology begins with something in Aran Ryan's point of view. There needs to be more Aran Ryan stuff. What a crazy little bastard. xD There are slashy hints that you don't need to squint to see - but there is no actual slash relationship between anyone in this story. Just vague hints and suggestive themes, but nothing more. This was actually done in response to a challenge set by one of my friends - he bet me during a Punch-Out!! battle that I couldn't make Aran Ryan angsty, because he's so dementedly _happy_ all the time. Well, in my point of view... the angst is there, but Aran's not really crazy enough. I'm getting there. Read on and review, plz.

* * *

Aran Ryan honestly _doesn't_ understand what he's doing wrong.

All he wants to do is talk. Maybe play around a little if the going's good - but in the end, talking is all he wants to accomplish. But every time he tries, it seems to go wrong in some way or another - this applies to every boxer in the Association, who usually look oddly at him or just ignore his every word. Despite being in the World Circuit, and despite being better than most boxers, it seems that everybody looks down at him. He knows that he hasn't been taken seriously in what seems like eons, and he also understands that somehow it's all his fault. What he doesn't understand is _why_.

Sure, he loves to jeer and laugh at the others. It's what he's good at. But even when he's not _trying_ to, something inside him makes the whole thing go pear-shaped; it's as if there is a stray poison inside him, running inside his veins, that forces him to grow apart from the others day by day. Aran knows that things between him and the others are terrible at this present moment - it's a waiting game, for soon enough everyone will turn on him and kick him out. He can sense it. Bald Bull always glares and mutters in his direction even when he's not doing anything; Don Flamenco tenses and goes rather quiet when he's nearby; Super Macho Man seems to laugh at him more than around anybody else. More hate and sneering is directed towards Aran than any other boxer - not even Glass Joe is treated with that much contempt. The Frenchman is surprisingly well-liked, for being ever so sweet and gentle despite losing every match he's in. Aran thinks that everyone has a kind of soft spot for Glass Joe - even Mr Sandman acknowledges him with some politeness, although he doesn't dare to pat the smaller man's back like he does with his friends (it could very well knock him unconscious for days, knowing how fragile he is). At thirty-eight years old, Glass Joe is the second oldest boxer in the WVBA, and people respect that as well. He might know little about the art of boxing, but he knows much about everything else.

In fact, nowadays Aran Ryan seems to be the only one making snide comments about the Frenchman.

But truth be told, he's not doing it because he hates Glass Joe. Sure, he's not Irish and he's therefore not as 'remarkable' as Aran Ryan believes the Irish are; but that doesn't matter. All that matters is when exactly he can get the Frenchman talking to him. Glass Joe isn't going to start socializing by himself, so Aran must do it for him.

Oh, he _tries_, of course; he tries to get the other man talking. But it never works. Glass Joe just ignores him most of the time - he either quickly leaves the room if he and Aran are alone, or edges himself towards a place where there are people who support him. He's one smart bastard, Aran admits to himself with a bitter smile - but then Glass Joe is fifteen years his senior. Obviously he knows more about such matters.

As he's contemplating this, the Frenchman himself comes in. He's been training, Aran notices - his body is covered with a fine layer of sweat, and he looks rather dazed when he stumbles into the changing rooms. He doesn't seem to realize that the Irishman is there; he just goes straight to his bag and grabs himself a large towel before making his way to the shower stalls. It's not long before Aran hears the rush of hot water from one of the stalls; knowing Glass Joe, he's probably in there leaning against the wall, too exhausted to even stand up properly. Typical him.

But despite his weak exterior, Aran knows that Glass Joe isn't as frail inside. What else could explain the man's willingness to try again and again, even though he loses every match he attends? There must be something interesting inside his mind. Aran Ryan's watched Glass Joe for quite a few months now, observing him closely - even following him to his apartment on one occasion - and he can quite safely conclude that he is_ fascinated _with the Frenchman for being so determined. He just wants an opportunity to go up to him and say hello without being suspected of mischief. He might prove to be a surprisingly lovely person to talk to. Aran doesn't quite know how to explain his odd fascination with Glass Joe, but for the moment he pushes that thought aside.

Glass Joe comes back in, clad in his boxer shorts; his hair has been towelled dry. He quickly changes into his usual red trousers and dries off the rest of his body, still not appearing to notice Aran Ryan's presence. The Irishman looks at him all throughout this routine, mentally noting how strange his hair colour is. It's not so much a red colour as the Frenchman might say it is. It's more of a darker, brownish-ginger colour; when strands of his hair catch the light, it is the most vivid _orange_. It goes surprisingly well with Glass Joe's eyes (a lovely shade of chocolate) - each feature compliments the other in this man's face, and Aran likes that.

But he has to admit, Glass Joe's hair colour is _astonishing_.

This is it. He has the chance to talk to Glass Joe now. He should say something, maybe make a comment about his hair and how well it compliments him-

"What's with your hair, Frenchie?" Aran asks, a grin twisting his lips. Inwardly he's kicking himself, for he knows that this really isn't the best way to start a conversation, but he's started now and he's going to have to go along with it. "is your hair meant to be _red_? Looks more like carrot to me."

Glass Joe gives him a long look - Aran flinches inwardly, as the older man's gaze is one of both pity and annoyance. He can understand the annoyance part, but why the Frenchman is pitying him is beyond his comprehension and he doesn't really like it. He doesn't like it at all. Without offering a reply, Glass Joe puts on his tight black shirt, tucks it into his trousers (Parisian fashion is so strange at times) and puts on his beret. He then picks up his bag and walks out of the door.

Normally the Irishman wouldn't bother with following him, but today is different. He will get the older man to say something back to him. Aran follows him out of the door, walking just behind him, talking all the while.

"You _are_ listening, aren't you, Frenchie? Just answer already!" Glass Joe walks on. "you can't ignore me forever. All I want is five minutes of your time, for God's sake! Or am I too _petit-bourgeois_ for you? Eh? Is that it?"

The Frenchman stops and looks exasperatedly back at him. "Monsieur-"

"Talk in English!" Aran barks out, even though he's secretly glad that Glass Joe's finally said something to him. "I don't speak French, how am I going to understand you?"

"Your social class is of no importance to me," the older man replies in his thick (and dare he say it, _luscious_) accent. "I must be leaving now, if you will excuse me."

Aran's delight in hearing Glass Joe talk to him diminishes greatly as the older man attempts to walk away; he quickly blocks his way, his cruel grin still in place. "I'm not done with you yet! You haven't answered me. Is your hair meant to be red?"

"Monsieur, please-"

"_Is it_?"

"_Yes_!" Glass Joe finally blurts out, almost shouting in frustration. "does that answer your question? _Laissez-moi passer_!"

The Irishman blinks once, taken aback despite himself, but regains his composure again. "Only the Irish can get away with red hair, Frenchie! And the last time I checked, you didn't look Irish to me - and your hair isn't that red anyway!"

The Frenchman actually clenches his teeth, now angry and frustrated. His feelings and pride are being toyed with by somebody who's fifteen years younger than him; but he knows that he cannot land himself in a physical brawl with Aran Ryan, for he will lose. He will never be as fast and as powerful as the Irishman, and now isn't the time to challenge that statement. He inhales and exhales deeply, gazing at Aran with calmer eyes, his temper settling down.

"I have answered your question and that is enough, Monsieur. I must be on my way."

Glass Joe pushes past without hesitation or even waiting for a response.

Aran Ryan stands there, stunned, for only a second before sudden fury at himself grasps at his subconscious. Something inside him tells him that he's blown it big time, that he's completely ruined his chances of ever being in Glass Joe's favour. And that something jeers at him, for all this is his fault and no one else's; it's purely his fault that he twists around his words and can't convey anything in the right manner. He ought to go and apologize - but at the same time, rage builds up within him, directed towards the Frenchman. Why can't he understand that all he wants is to talk? What _more_ is the Irishman meant to be doing? Go down on his knees and beg?

_Never._

Before he can explain his intentions rationally, he sees that Glass Joe is already a few steps ahead of him. Out of all the possible things he can do, Aran Ryan does the most illogical, unhelpful thing possible.

He reaches out and snatches away the other's beret; and before the Frenchman can react, he grabs a fistful of his hair and tugs hard.

Glass Joe doesn't gasp or whimper. His eyes clench shut in pain and his head is jerked back roughly as he _screams_; the sudden increase in volume makes Aran wince and loosen his grip, stumbling in front of the Frenchman. Glass Joe falls to his knees, his bag and beret falling in a crumpled heap, clutching at his hair and trembling. Aran Ryan wants to bend down, apologize a million times over and ask if he's all right, but he's frozen to the spot. The Irishman hasn't actually thought about the possibility of this happening - he's pulled out quite a few strands of hair in the process. For all he knows, Glass Joe might be bleeding right now where strands of hair have been torn away.

But Aran Ryan didn't mean to hurt him.

"What was that you said about red hair?" a quiet, but nevertheless threatening voice calls to him ever so softly. Aran flinches upon recognizing the voice, hardly daring to turn around; he glances back ever so slightly, seeing the one person he didn't fancy seeing.

Standing behind him is Von Kaiser, who's just come back inside from his break from training. He must have been standing just outside of the main doors to hear everything that Aran said. He's still wearing his gloves, along with a murderous look on his face. One look at the man makes Aran realize that he's just made one of the biggest mistakes of his life.

Von Kaiser has a _very_ fine head of red hair.

Complete with a very impressive mustache and eyebrows.

Before Aran Ryan can even say a word in his defense, the German boxer lunges forward and uppercuts him straight on the chin. He's almost broken the primary rule for boxers - never hit anyone outside the ring without gloves on - but because Von Kaiser_ is _wearing his gloves, Aran can't do much about that. He goes down with a yelp, taken by surprise at the lightening-fast attack, and falls hard to the ground.

"Are you all right?" he hears Von Kaiser ask softly to Glass Joe, his voice tinged with worry. That voice is so unlike Von Kaiser - he should sound rough and harsh, not gentle. But either way, it seems to be working wonders for Glass Joe, who nods nervously and tries to get up, no longer in pain. The older man unlaces his gloves quickly as he sees this. "here, let me..."

Von Kaiser stretches his arm out, grasping the Frenchman's hand with his own and helping him up. He also bends down to pick up the other's bag and beret, handing them to Glass Joe.

"_Merci_..." the younger man whispers, sounding shy and nervous. "I... should get going now... but _merci beaucoup_, Monsieur."

"You're welcome," Von Kaiser says. Aran watches, speechless, as they walk away and leave him splayed out on the ground; the German boxer is shielding Glass Joe from further harm, even walking him to the main doors where he will be safe from the Irishman's clutches.

Aran doesn't understand why, but he feels as if he's going to cry when he sees that.

"Stay away from the likes of him," he can faintly hear Von Kaiser saying. "he could have done much worse." his voice is definitely softer, kinder than usual, and Aran bites his lip as he realizes that Von Kaiser has _more_ than just friendly feelings for Glass Joe. This in itself wouldn't be so bad - but the Irishman sees how Glass Joe leans close towards Von Kaiser. Nothing that he'd ever do in response to Aran Ryan. He doubts that either of them knows how the other feels, but from what he can see, it's going to happen quite soon.

"I wasn't expecting it," Glass Joe replies. "I'm just glad that nothing in my bag broke... I did fall rather hard..."

The German boxer nods, but doesn't say anything. He instead reaches up and pats the other's head, smoothing the messed-up locks of hair back into place. Aran would like to see the Frenchman recoiling at the touch, of course, but nothing like that happens. Glass Joe walks along, letting his hair be stroked, apparently enjoying the sensation.

Although he doesn't want to admit it, Glass Joe and Von Kaiser suit each other.

Aran Ryan pulls himself up into a sitting position, still staring after the two. It's hard to hear anything from that distance now, but Glass Joe seems to be thanking Von Kaiser again before giving him a wave as he leaves the building. Von Kaiser responds with a slight wave of his own, watching the other leave, keeping an eye on him in case anything else happens. The Irishman briefly thinks that he sees a rather sad light in the older man's eyes; he also believes for a moment that he hears the other sigh dejectedly; but maybe it's just his mind playing tricks on him. Von Kaiser is not exactly the sentimental type.

Except around Glass Joe, that is.

He doesn't want to watch anymore. All he knows about the whole thing is that he's blown everything with Glass Joe, and that Von Kaiser's sweet on the Frenchman. And deep down inside, he knows that he feels the same towards Glass Joe - but he will only ever respond to one of the two, and it's not going to be Aran that he wants.

Aran Ryan stands up and walks away from the entrance, where Von Kaiser is still standing and staring longingly in the direction that Glass Joe went. He could pick a fight with the older boxer, of course. He'll win every match against him. He's faster, younger, and more skilled than Von Kaiser is and everyone knows that.

But he doesn't see the point of it all, when it won't earn him anything except for more hate and bitterness.

A bitter grimace graces his face as he turns away and runs through the building, searching for the back door. There's no way that he's going to use the same entrance as Von Kaiser - he finds the door, wrenches it open and into the sunny world outside. But there's nothing there that he wants. He's still wearing his boxing attire, but he couldn't care less about what he looks like right now. Aran keeps on running towards his house, where he knows that multiple conveniently-placed punching bags are waiting for him to be used at his own leisure. They're just _things_, bloody _things_, objects that he takes his anger out on and then disposes of when they burst.

All of them are going to be thrown in the trash tonight.


	2. 02: Lucky Clover

**Author's Note:** Oh wow this isn't slash let's poke this foreign material with pitchforks

Joking aside, despite the title this has about 0.0001% to do with Aran Ryan. This actually focuses on the only possibly canonical couple in the Punch-Out! series - Don Flamenco and Carmen. I believe that Carmen is that blonde lady Don gives a rose to in his Contender intro. This is a quick fluffy oneshot that focuses on them as a couple before and after Don Flamenco's loss to Little Mac. It's rather quirky and vignette-ish.

I fail horribly at Spanish because I never took it. x.x As a result I've stuck to exclamations instead of whole phrases and sentences - I'll make it all butchery if I tried that much. Don't hurt me. If I can't write those languages properly... and I'm not good with accents either... what'll happen when I write Super Macho Man? Piston Hondo? Bald Bull? Oh God I'm scared.

To the three reviewers: thank you very much for the kind reviews. If only you had an account I could reply to, Chaos Wielder - you always critique me in a constructive manner and I really appreciate that. I'll try my best with the next stories as well. I want my readers happy. xD

* * *

"Don Flamenco, you're impossible!" is what she gasps out as they fall over, laughing, on a large patch of clovers.

He has to smile back and wonder how it all started, really.

The beginning is simple enough. He finishes his daily training, takes a shower, puts on a fine rose perfume that he knows that she absolutely _adores_, and then goes to rendezvous with her in front of the WVBA building. She laughs and kisses his face as they meet, her eyes shining in the sun.

"I was thinking you'd never turn up," she says playfully. "what kept you?"

"_Lo siento, Carmen_," he says sincerely, causing her to smile. "I was practicing for my next match."

"You love boxing more than you love me," she pouts - an act that he takes as an invitation for a kiss. This is accepted gracefully, and what little annoyance that she might have had for him evaporates away - Don Flamenco is only too aware of this, and smiles as he holds out his arm for her to take.

"Lunch?" he asks, and she nods enthusiastically. They're a couple of rather few words when it comes to daily business like this, and they like it that way.

* * *

As noted afterwards, the afternoon meal is also a simple affair. He takes her into a cafe where they order a slice of cake each (chocolate for her, coffee for him) and share a large vanilla milkshake together. Neither of them eat very much, for both are too concerned with their figures - although they do so for different reasons, it still makes an identifiable factor for both of them. The cakes and the milkshake are vastly high-calorie foods, yes, but then they're used to adjusting the amounts they eat depending on the calorie content. Yet none of that truly matters to Don Flamenco, who'll gladly eat a whole paella or two without taking a breath in between; if he can share it with Carmen, that's all that matters.

"... and then Micaëla said that she'd get married to the most perfect man possible," Carmen is saying, telling him about what she did in the morning. Don Flamenco is a good listener - that is indeed a virtue which is quite rare in young men nowadays, and it would only be fair to say that she is glad that she has such a man for a lover. "but what would you define a perfect man as? She said if he was a reasonably well-off gentleman, that was all that mattered - me, I think differently. A perfect man should be able to love what he does and what he has more than anything," she tilts her head slightly and gazes at him with her baby-blue eyes, melting his heart. "you do love being a matador and boxer, don't you?"

"_Si_."

"Isn't it hard juggling two jobs at a time? You keep flying back to Spain every month to fight a bull - that can't be easy..."

"It's fine with me, my Carmencita!" he laughs; the nickname is a joke between them, for they both love the opera 'Carmen' - and the full name of the heroine is indeed 'Carmencita'. "when I am here I can be with you. When I am in Spain I can look forward to hold you in my arms again. Either way is pleasant to me."

Carmen giggles. "How strange! _Cariño_, I'm glad you love me."

"I'm glad that I've got a beautiful girl like you by my side," Don Flamenco replies, and then tilts his head in question. "shall we go for a walk?"

The girl nods, and he motions to the waiter for the bill.

* * *

Don Flamenco leads his girlfriend into a small park, following the promenade. They have been here before, sitting on one of the benches and discussing their lives; but today is a little different and they walk past the park benches, towards the more secluded parts where the grass is longer and more wild flowers grow.

"I've never looked at this part before," Carmen remarks as she walks next to him. "oh, look!" a squirrel runs by, chattering away, and darts up a tree; she is enchanted by this sight and laughs happily. The matador holds her closer in response - he loves it when she's happy.

"There's a clover patch there," he points towards a place where the ground seems much more greener than the surrounding area. "would you like to try our luck and search for the lucky clover?"

Carmen tosses her head lightly and giggles. "That reminds me of that man from the Association. What was his name - Aran? He wears four-leaf clovers, doesn't he?"

"The luck of the Irish," Don Flamenco sighs before he cheers up again. "shall we?"

"_Oh __s__í_!" she agrees, and they run towards the clover patch where they drop to their knees and search for said clover. Don Flamenco notes during the search that Carmen's hands are particularly lovely; they are white, lean and shapely with long delicate fingers. She brushes certain clovers aside, checking their leaves, patiently going through every single one. Women's hands are fascinating to look at, but Carmen's are the most beautiful in his eyes.

They work in silence for a while before Don Flamenco jumps up excitedly with a yell.

"Found one!" he exclaims as he triumphantly holds up a four-leaf clover; it's perfect in every way, the four petals beautifully matched. "let's find yours now. There should be at least one more."

"Lucky you," Carmen murmurs as she peers close at the four-leaf clover and back at the ground again. "I can't seem to find any."

They search for a further half hour - Don Flamenco wraps his clover in a piece of tissue to tuck away in his pockets, and he does his best to try to find his girlfriend a lucky charm of her own. After all, it won't be fair if only one of them receives the luck. They've always done everything together, and therefore logic follows that they should do the same for the clovers as well.

However, even after combing every inch of the clover patch three times in a row, that second four-leaf clover remains nowhere to be seen. All she's managed to get is the largest, prettiest three-leaf clover; sure, it's beautiful in its own way, but it's not the same. Carmen sighs and sits back up again, brushing back a lock of her blonde hair and tidying her dress.

"It can't be helped, I suppose," she says to Don Flamenco, who quietly sits next to her. "after all, they're rare, aren't they?"

He doesn't really offer an answer, but looks at her instead. Underneath the supposedly-carefree smile, he knows that she is disappointed; and he'll be damned if he doesn't fix that. It's his job to make her as happy as possible - he swore that himself when they first became a couple, and there's no reason why he can't make her happy again. Lucky clover or not, if Carmen can't share any of it, he might as well have not found it at all.

Don Flamenco finally comes to a decision. He takes out the tissue bundle containing the four-leaf clover - he then unwraps the bundle to take the clover out. Whilst Carmen looks over at him, he then delicately tears off one leaf, leaving his clover with only three leaves.

"_¡__Dios m__í__o! _Why, what are you doing?" Carmen exclaims, shocked; her eyes are wide as she peers at the previously-lucky clover. "you'll ruin the luck!"

"Luck means nothing to me if I can't share it with you, my love," Don Flamenco says, his voice serious as he looks deeply into her eyes. "besides... did you know that three-leaf clovers symbolize happiness? Others only seem to care for their four-leaved cousins, but why bother with that when we've got a whole _patch_ of happiness right here?" he smiles and pats the ground next to him, inviting Carmen to sit closer beside him.

She gazes at him with some wonder and confusion - but then she laughs, the light of joy back in her eyes.

"Silly," she says, but she's still laughing. "but you won't get any of that luck at your next match."

"My dear, I would never have become the Major Circuit Champion if I relied on luck all the time," Don Flamenco replies, winking softly at his girlfriend. "now give me a kiss, Carmen _mi amor_, and I promise to win the next match for you."

Without waiting for a reply, he pulls her into a hug, nuzzling her cheeks with his lips; she yelps playfully and giggles in response, blushing. He smiles triumphantly to himself - for the umpteenth time, he has succeeded in making his lover happy. That means more to him than _any_ amount of luck in the world.

* * *

Of course, like most beautiful promises in life, Don Flamenco's promise goes unkept. His next match, held a week after the clover incident, is against a young boy named Little Mac - and in just one round that would later become history, the matador is utterly defeated. He sits in the changing room, nursing his bruises and wincing every now and then; Glass Joe walks past, gazing at him worriedly.

"_Ah, mon ami_... I assume you fought against Monsieur Little Mac?"

A nod.

"Can I get you anything?"

"_Hielo_..." Don Flamenco manages that one word with difficulty. Glass Joe nods; he's heard that word before and can roughly understand what the other wants. He also understands that the younger man is in too much pain to talk more than a few words, and quickly leaves the room; he comes back only a minute later with an ice pack, which he then positions over the bruise on the other's eye. "... and my toupee..."

The Frenchman rubs his head apologetically. "Uh... I know that it has been retrieved, but I don't think it's in good shape... I daresay one would look _tres bizarre_ wearing it now."

Don Flamenco sighs and presses the ice pack tighter to his face, frowning deeply. "Just... give me... need it..."

This request is soon granted by the older man, who goes out and reluctantly fetches the slightly out-of-shape toupee from the referee himself. Don Flamenco's mood lights up just a little when he sees it, and he takes the hairpiece while mumbling a thanks to Glass Joe; he inspects it and then decides that it's still usable.

"You could get a new _postiche _later," the Frenchman quietly says as he checks the younger boxer for any further injuries. "when you're feeling better."

"How will I ever face Carmen?" the matador utters in despair, being able to speak a little more now that the pain in his face is numbed. "I promised... I'd win..."

"She will be waiting for you," Glass Joe replies - he doesn't know too much about women, despite being fifteen years Don Flamenco's senior, but he can assure that much. "I doubt she would leave you over that one loss."

Don Flamenco, being still much too young to understand love, remains unconvinced. "I failed to keep my promise... _¡qu__é__ vergüenza!_ And it was a promise to _her_, no less-" his speech is cut off unceremoniously as he winces in pain, his jaw aching. "_ahh_..."

Glass Joe hides a smile. For a man whose main profession is bullfighting - for someone with such a manly job in hand - Don Flamenco really does get nervous and naive at times.

"_Ecoutez_, _s'il vous plaît_," he says gently. "your loss in a boxing match is nothing compared to being a torero. Imagine if you lost a _bullfight_, and think about it, _mon ami... _you probably wouldn't be alive at all. Carmen will be glad she still has you more than anything."

This is a new revelation to the young matador. He's never thought about that side of the situation before. Indeed, once a matador loses a fight against a bull, he may well be gored to death, crippled for life or at the very least, suffer long-term internal injuries. His loss seems so trivial and unimportant once he considers that aspect of his life; so what if he's lost a match? He's lost before to Mr Sandman, and there are still so many out there who have worse records than him...

But then he thinks about Carmen, and he bites his lip as he realizes that he has to face her soon.

Glass Joe watches him, a small smile on his face. "Don't worry. She'll love you no matter what, _mon garçon_... Oh, is that the time?" he glances at his watch, and then stands up. "I need to leave. I'm meeting a friend for lunch."

"Have fun," Don Flamenco says weakly. "wish me some - _buena suerte_ with Carmen."

"I will. _Bonne chance_!"

* * *

Half an hour later, the pain has mostly disappeared and the swelling on his face has gone down; but he is still bruised all over. He'd like to just stay within the changing rooms until he looks more presentable, but he knows that that would take days - and he can't keep Carmen waiting, despite not wishing to face her in such disgrace. Shuddering at the thought of being rejected, he packs his belongings into a bag and leaves the room, quietly seething at Little Mac; not only has the boy robbed him of his belt, he has also caused Don Flamenco to break his promise. The shame of it is almost _unbearable_ - he doesn't know when, but someday he'll make the boy pay for insulting his masculinity.

"You took a long time," a voice calls from behind him, sounding amused. Don Flamenco whirls around to come face-to-face with Carmen herself; she's smiling at him quite freely, no hate or disappointment in her eyes. Slung over her shoulders is a handbag, and she also has a novel in her hand.

"Carmen... I..."

"Don't you worry about breaking the news," she says gently. "I was watching. You did fine, Don Flamenco."

But he can't stop the guilt tearing at him. "I'm sorry!" he blurts out, falling to his knees. "I tried so hard, _mi amor_! I tried to keep my promise! Please, please don't abandon me!"

Any other day he would _laughed_ at the notion of himself doing such a thing. The matador is only too aware of how pathetic he looks, kneeling in front of his lover and begging for forgiveness - hardly masculine as far as he's concerned. But he doesn't care. Anything will be done as long as Carmen loves him.

"_Ven acá," _the girl says, reaching out a delicate hand and helping him up. "let's go for a walk."

Don Flamenco doesn't protest. He's just grateful that his lover hasn't rejected him yet - so he walks along with her in silence, noting how firm and gentle her grip on his hand is. She leads him to the park where they had walked a week prior, finding the exact clover patch they had been in, gesturing for him to sit down; he does so slowly as not to hurt himself. Without saying a word, she opens her novel and produces the very same large three-leaf clover she picked out a week ago - she has kept it all this time, tucked away carefully between the pages of her book.

"The three-leaf clover symbolizes happiness, _si_?" she asks. Don Flamenco nods, remembering how he told her about the symbolism of the three-leaf clover. "it's here. You're still here and so am I. And that's all that matters, _cariño_."

For a moment he is lost for words as he stares at Carmen; but then his face breaks into a wide smile as he realizes what she means. She hasn't rejected him, far from it - she accepts that he is human after all, and she forgives him entirely. Words cannot express how much he loves her at this very moment. Carmen is so unlike the other _chicas_ he knows; she is more accepting, more appreciative, she is _everything_ that Don Flamenco needs. Glass Joe was right after all.

"_Te amo_, Carmen," he whispers as he grasps her in an embrace. She smiles at him sweetly, pressing her nose lightly to his in an affectionate gesture.

"_Tambi__é__n te amo_," she murmurs in response before her expression turns into one of concern. She frowns lightly as she touches his bruises. "maybe you should have kept that four-leaf clover intact after all..."

"But then you would have been left disappointed, Carmencita," he whispers. "and we wouldn't be here right now."

And then the matador pushes her down to the ground, and she shrieks playfully as he rolls on top of her, his injuries and bruises forgotten.

"Don Flamenco, you're impossible!" she gasps as they fall over on the clover patch, laughing and joyful. He smiles at her, noting how beautiful her hair looks shining in the sun, her eyes the brightest shade of turquoise. Carmen laughs as he strokes her hair, running his fingers through the silky locks. He leans down slightly, asking for a kiss - which is granted to him without hesitation.

_Heavenly._


	3. 03: Consolation

**Author's Note:** Stop invading my mind Joe stop stop stop

Yes, this is Glass Joe in a big way. Although he isn't meant to be the primary protagonist. This fic is actually about Little Mac and his retirement more than anything else. I always thought that Last Stand Mode forced you to retire without warning and without taking into account the countless matches you fought - it's one of the most spontaneous game modes I've ever seen. If Little Mac had retired in such a quick manner - wouldn't he end up regretting it ultimately?

That was my plotbunny. This contains slash between Glass Joe and Von Kaiser, btw, and there's some lover's quarrel(ish) segments in there. You can alternatively choose to read up until the point where it says '... away', followed by five dashes, and click the back button if you're only interested in the Little Mac bit. The slash is only at the last part anyway and it's not the main feature of the story.

Going to write something not Glass Joe for my next chapter... I'd ramble moar, but it's two am over here and I'm so damn sleepy. Read and review, plzkthnx.

* * *

The streets of The Bronx was busy as always; being a part of New York City, it was to be expected that it was always bustling with life. Early dusk had settled and the roads were dark, but still the passers-by hurried along by the streetlights, eager to get home for their evening meal. Some high-school students hung around in dark alleys, trying to buy smokes off each other; all this was perfectly natural in the atmosphere of the city.

One person wearing a pink jumpsuit cycled past, drawing odd glances. This particular person looked no more than eighteen, and even that was pushing it. Although it wasn't clearly visible, he was a fairly short male, with black hair and blue eyes that stared defiantly ahead. He seemed to be particularly frustrated about something, although it looked as if he didn't even know what himself. Anyone who had known him would have thought it extremely odd that he was pushing past people - he was a boy of few words, but more polite than most people.

Not tonight.

The boy stopped by a traffic light, pulling down the hood of his jumpsuit and looking expectantly around him. People surrounded him on all sides, and he gazed eagerly at them as if he expected them to recognize him somehow. But the light of hope in his eyes soon disappeared as the lights changed colour and the passers-by swept past him, no recognition in their eyes.

"Damn," he muttered to himself as he pedalled away from the place, feeling disgusted - so was that it? Were three months - twelve weeks - all it took for the people to forget him, the boy who had made history? He knew that he was being unreasonable; the world changed too much, too often, for any piece of news to last long. But what about celebrity deaths and child kidnappings? He knew that some stories still made headlines despite being years old - were people really that shallow? Did it take something drastic and terrifying as _death_ to get them to pay attention?

He loathed it all at that very moment.

"You got a dime?" a bunch of high-schoolers called out to him from a shop doorway. He ignored them, cycling past; he dismounted his bike a little way off, realizing that he was hungry and needed something to eat. When he had secured the bike with a lock, he returned to the where the shop was. The high-schoolers seemed to have disappeared, but that was good for him - they wouldn't dare attack him in a public place like a shop even if they came in. He found just enough change in his pockets for a ham sandwich, which he wolfed down in the space of about two minutes. It wasn't quite enough to sate his hunger, but it would at least quell the feeling until he went back home. Whistling tunelessly to himself, he exited the shop and began to walk slowly down the road, stealing glances at the people around him.

But that didn't last long - someone gave him a hard shove in the back, and whilst he was stunned at the sudden attack he found himself being dragged inside a dark alley. There, he found that the very same group of high-schoolers were grinning at him; they obviously mistook him for someone much younger than they were. There seemed to be around ten of them, and although he didn't want to admit it, he was outnumbered.

"You got a dime?" one of the taller kids repeated their previous question - he was about two inches taller than the boy - while the others gaffawed. "nobody ignores us when we ask for things. What's with the pink anyway, _midget_?"

Something inside the boy _snapped_ with those words. Nobody called him a midget and got away with it.

Without exactly thinking about the consequences, he lunged forwards to unleash a sharp right hook to the taller boy's stomach, cutting off his wind and making him fall to the ground. The latter writhed in pain, his face twisted, his mouth open in a silent scream; that punch had been so much more powerful than what he had expected. The other high-schoolers dropped everything, momentarily startled; the boy could have used this chance to run away, but he stood guard, his body carefully poised in a stance he had not assumed in months. Something inside him screamed that he was doing something stupid, so unbearably _stupid_ - but that punch had made him feel more like himself for some reason, and he wanted that feeling back for the time being.

"Get 'im!" the assaulted boy roared as he finally got his breath back; they hesitated still, but then one of the kids darted out, his fists raised. He dodged the punch nimbly and countered with a left jab to the face that left the other reeling back. Even when they all jumped at him with shouts and screams of fury, he could still dodge all the fists they swung at him with his nimble footwork. Those punches were clumsy, mere child's play compared to what he could do. He could feel some punches hitting their mark, and supposed that this was because he was outnumbered - but they didn't hurt enough to injure him. A couple of kids were already down, grasping at their jaw and rolling around in pain, whilst a third crashed next to them, clutching his stomach. The boy was making sure that he didn't injure any of them badly, knowing that only two-or-so hits would be enough to floor each of them - but that was still quite a number of punches he needed to unleash.

But he never got to deliver all of them.

"_Non, Monsieur, non_!" he heard an oddly-familiar voice shouting at him; but in his frenzy, he hardly realized who it was until the owner of the voice grabbed him and forcefully pulled him back. "you are a _boxer_! Boxers must not hit people without gloves on outside of the boxing ring!"

His delight in hearing someone recognizing him as a boxer faltered slightly when he turned around; he found himself face-to-face with a pair of (surprisingly soft) brown eyes staring at him. He had only ever known one person during his boxing career who had the same exact eyes. The man also wore a tight black shirt and red trousers, looking rather out-of-place amongst the streets of New York, but then he had never really seemed to blend in anywhere-

"A _boxer_?" one of the high-schoolers blurted out, scrambling to his feet. "but that ain't fair! Let's get out of here!"

Within seconds they had run away, too frightened to fight with a professional boxer, and the sound of their footsteps faded into the distance. The man watched them leave, and then looked at the boy in front of him - he was three inches taller than the boy himself, and this gave him a kind of advantage over the situation. "Monsieur Little Mac, what are you doing here?"

Little Mac stared at him, adrenaline still running through his veins, panting heavily as he tried to take control of his breathing. "I was... just passing by. That was all, Mr... Glass Joe. They tried to get money off me, so I just..."

Glass Joe shook his head in disbelief. "You were acting in self-defense? Surely you knew about the rule that states that _boxeurs_ must not hit people when not in a match! Once trained, a boxer's fists are classified as weapons - you could have easily _murdered_ someone!"

"Jesus, what's this?" Little Mac replied defensively, shaking his arm free from the other's grasp. "it's not like you _own_ me!"

"No, Monsieur. I may not be your guardian, but I _am_ more than twice your age and have fought over one hundred matches," Glass Joe said calmly. "I know every boxing rule backwards. _Mais venez ici_. Let us not talk of this any longer. I am more interested in how you're faring after your retirement."

This invitation was taken gladly by the boy, who nodded silently and began walking after the Frenchman.

* * *

Glass Joe led them both to a small bar. The bartender glanced at them as they arrived, his gaze resting a little longer on Little Mac (who stared straight back and straightened up). The Frenchman quickly pulled him towards the corner table, gesturing for him to sit down - Little Mac did as asked, feeling exhausted.

"Would you like something to eat?"

"Please buy me a drink," the boy said weakly. "the stronger the better."

"No."

Glass Joe's refusal came as a surprise - Little Mac had thought that the man would be too nervous to argue. He stared at the Frenchman, bewildered. "Why not?"

"You are only seventeen, Monsieur Little Mac," the older man said calmly. "I have no intentions of going to jail by buying alcohol for a minor."

Little Mac groaned. "Oh _please_! We're in the _Bronx_, everything goes in this place! I'm eighteen next month anyway! Please..."

But Glass Joe was unmovable. And besides, Little Mac didn't want to see the older man in jail for something as petty as a glass of wine. Giving up, the boy reluctantly asked for any kind of non-alcoholic drink; this request was granted soon enough by the Frenchman, who came back with a glass of water for himself and a glass of apple juice for Little Mac. When he sat down, he sipped at the water and gazed at the boy in silence, letting him calm down.

"Thank you," Little Mac finally said, taking a long gulp of the juice.

"Now that you're feeling better, would you kindly tell me what's bothering you?" Glass Joe asked, his voice quiet and carefully neutral. He was used to dealing with boys roughly of Little Mac's age - after all, Disco Kid was only three years his senior - and knew that he should be cautious.

The boy didn't answer for a while.

"Everything sucks right now," Little Mac finally muttered, glaring into his drink. His face was dark and flushed lightly with what seemed like both anger and frustration; any more and he'd look drunk. Glass Joe couldn't risk that.

"_Pourquoi_?" the Frenchman asked quietly, taking care to keep his voice level. "what happened?"

"I'm seventeen. Just three months ago I was the champion of the WVBA," the boy laughed darkly, swirling the liquid around in his glass. "and what am I now? Just a nobody. Back to being the little one. Back to being just a plain teenager instead of a boxing champ. Nobody recognizes me anymore."

"I wouldn't say that," Glass Joe responded. "we still remember you. How could we not? I haven't forgotten your star punches - the last time you used one on me, I remember that I lost consciousness for a few days or so. That's not an easy thing to forget."

The boy smirked to himself, but his eyes didn't light up. "I suppose that the boxers still remember me. But what about the others? What about the people who saw my face plastered all around the place? I didn't like that much publicity even back then, and I don't want everyone fawning all over me now. Just a quick hello would do fine. I just want some people to remember me as Little Mac, not some pink-jumpsuit-wearing midget. Is that _too much_ to ask? Am I being unreasonable?"

The Frenchman raised his eyebrows. Out of all the boxers he had thought would be concerned about loss of popularity, Little Mac had ranked extremely low on his list. "It's not too much to ask, Monsieur... but you cannot expect every other person to remember you. This is America... everything changes too often."

"I know," Little Mac mumbled, planting his head on the table and groaning softly. "that's what I hate about it."

Glass Joe looked over at the boy, frowning to himself. Little Mac's demands were strangely unreasonable - surely he knew that he wouldn't have people everywhere recognizing his face. If they weren't boxing fans, they wouldn't know about him in the first place. And even if the boy had had the press swooning all over him day after day (which never did happen, much to Little Mac's own relief), nothing much would have had changed. Little Mac had retired merely eight months after beginning his career - he had worked his way up from being a nobody to the WVBA champion in that amazingly short length of time and had also defended his belt dozens of times. But now that he was retired, now that he boxed no longer, he was yesterday's news. Surely Little Mac could understand that.

It occurred to him that maybe Little Mac wasn't exactly looking for attention. Something had provoked him to just retire and fade away into the past - but if he was searching this desperately for recognition, he probably hadn't wanted to retire in the first place. Glass Joe was getting the vibe that the boy had retired in a sudden whim and was regretting it subconsciously.

"Tell me, Monsieur," he said as he looked at the other. "_why_ did you retire from boxing?"

Little Mac looked up, startled. Nobody had ever asked him that before - not even Doc Louis had questioned it. He had merely nodded with a bittersweet kind of look in his eyes, patted him on the back and had let him go. He had to rack his brains for an answer - why had he, exactly?

"It's hard to explain," he finally said. "but after I became champion, and defended my belt against everyone... I realized that there was no other way out. At least I could try and practice all over again when I was still a challenger. I fought Sandman for the second time... and then Bald Bull... and then that huge ape..." he trailed off. "were you watching that match?"

Glass Joe nodded.

"... Well, after that... I realized something. Being the champion just means an endless stream of challengers waiting to kick you out. Sooner or later I was going down, wasn't I? There... wasn't any other way out except downhill. I knew I couldn't stay a champion for ever and eventually someone was going to come along to beat me a hundred times over. I didn't know anything... I didn't know who was going to take my belt once and for all, I didn't know how badly I was going to be ridiculed. And then I noticed that I had fought more matches than Sandman himself ever did. I was fighting every other day," he paused to take a sip of his juice. "and it was driving me _crazy_, playing this waiting game with every boxer that came along, wrecking my nerves. The first two times I lost I was able to regain my title straight away... but then I lost for the third time... and I just... couldn't _take_ it any more. I fought around sixty matches, and I just stopped. I couldn't go on. I..." the boy trailed off again, looking ashamed of himself.

"I... got scared."

"Do you regret having retired?" the Frenchman asked in the very same quiet voice. There was no ignoring that voice - the voice that fathers use when they're concerned for their children - so Little Mac had to reply. He bit his lower lip, but then nodded once, silently indicating his answer.

There was silence for a while.

"It was hectic when you left, Monsieur," Glass Joe said quietly. "we couldn't agree on who would become our next champion, for you retired before you could even try to win your title back from the person you lost to. _Quel dommage_! We knew that the belt was going to passed around from boxer to boxer - and would lose its value - if we couldn't find someone who could hold on to it. Eventually Mr Sandman took over the belt again, but we knew that he could never be a match for you. We from the Minor Circuit didn't notice much difference, but the World Circuit boxers... they changed. They picked fights over the littlest things. I believe they were angry that you withdrew without putting up a good fight."

"I understand," Little Mac replied in a soft voice. He'd never really thought about what effect he might have had on the others before.

"Have you seen your Hall of Fame? Far from forgetting you, Monsieur... it's all about you and you alone. You changed the Association for good."

"Thank you for saying that."

Glass Joe looked at him again. "Will you consider coming back? You won't need to worry about people forgetting you. It is true that you left us much too early - once you've stayed for a couple of years, that is when you can decide once more."

Little Mac looked at the man, really looked at him - the Frenchman was thirty-eight years old and had fought over one hundred matches. He knew that the older man had fought on a drawn-out, rather slow schedule - around one match every month or so - and he had been in the WVBA for around a full decade now. He might have known little about winning - but he knew how to learn from his losses. That was something the boy had failed to do.

"I'll have to beat you and everyone afterwards all over again," he said, not knowing what else to say. "they won't take that well."

"As long as it puts you back in the rank of champion - where you belong - I believe it is worth it, Monsieur. We were meant to fight and move up or down in the ranks, after all."

Little Mac smiled at him.

"You're... very wise, Mr. Glass Joe. They should give you more credit."

"That would most definitely be nice - _Mon Dieu_!" Glass Joe exclaimed upon glancing at his watch. "_je suis vraiment __d__é__solé_. I must leave. I have an appointment to attend to."

"What appointment?"

"I'm meeting my _petit ami _for dinner," the Frenchman blushed as he said this, but the boy didn't quite understand why. "I've already paid for the drinks, Monsieur. Don't you worry about that."

Little Mac managed a smile. "Thank you, Mr. Glass Joe. For... for everything. I hope to see you around."

"_Moi aussi_," Glass Joe stood up and offered his hand. "when you decide to come out of retirement, we shall attend a rematch, _oui_?"

"You got it." he shook the other's hand heartily.

With a nod and a smile, the older man left the bar; Little Mac could see him rushing towards the next set of traffic lights in a hurry - he must have kept the older man for longer than necessary and he felt quite guilty for it. But he had to admit, Glass Joe had made him feel much better than before; he wasn't completely alone, and he was welcome to come out of retirement any time soon. He still had people who remembered and respected his talents. That was enough for now. He'd been blind to all that before, only focusing on whether random passers-by still remembered him, but he hadn't ever thought about the boxers whom he had fought before and still knew him all too well.

Perhaps he'd go back to the gym tomorrow.

Smiling, and feeling much better, he walked out of the bar and back to the bicycle stand where he unlocked his bike. He mentally wished Glass Joe a good time having dinner (with whoever he was meeting), and then cycled away.

* * *

Glass Joe jogged towards the WVBA building, where he knew that his '_petit ami' _was waiting for him; he was a little late, and this further encouraged him to pick up his pace. When he got there, he found that instead of who he was waiting for, there was only a blank wall greeting him; dismayed, he slumped down and sighed heavily.

"_Ou es-tu_?" he whispered softly to himself; he felt like crying. Had he ruined it all?

But then, before Glass Joe could do anything else, a rustle sounded behind him. He looked back, startled - and then, as if by magic, the man he had been waiting for stepped out of the shadows. The latter looked at the Frenchman and smiled brightly, implying that he had no hard feelings for the man.

"Monsieur Von Kaiser!" Glass Joe cried, running into his arms. "oh, I am so glad!"

"There!" the German boxer exclaimed, chuckling as the other man nuzzled into him, wrapping his muscular arms around his body. "you can't do without me, I know it!" Glass Joe lifted up his chin, a grin on his face, and was promptly greeted with a strong, hearty kiss (and some boastful triumph, which the Frenchman smiled at). Sometimes it struck him strange how romantic the older man could be; he was usually subtle about their relationship both in public and in private, but occasionally he would surprise Glass Joe with his displays of affection. "what kept you, _meine Liebe_?"

"I was detained for a while."

"Ah, _wirklich_?" Von Kaiser asked, inquiring. "detained where?"

Glass Joe laughed. "In a bar. I was met with a familiar face whilst I was on my way and I needed to take a detour."

"Was that it?" the German man sounded relieved; he fondled the other's hair, nuzzling his lips against his forehead. "and I thought you had been in an accident! I was so worried. So was this _Freund_ kind to you?"

"Oh, _oui_, Monsieur!" Glass Joe nodded. "and it was a very good thing I met him too. Monsieur Little Mac is quite a nice young man."

Von Kaiser instantly frowned and stepped back, his grasp on his lover loosening. "What's _Little Mac_ got to do with it?"

Realizing how this must have sounded, the Frenchman rubbed his head apologetically, chuckling at the same time. "Oh, _non_! I didn't mean it like that! What happened was that I ran across him on the way. He was rather anguished about his retirement and was begging me to buy him a strong drink, but I refused. We talked for a while... and then he felt better, so I left. That's what happened."

"And that was all, eh?" Von Kaiser still sounded suspicious. "surely that boy doesn't take _that_ long to cheer up. Did he make you uncomfortable in any way? Such as by making... _comments_? He must have held you back for quite a while."

Glass Joe inwardly smiled at this display - he had found Von Kaiser's childlike side. The older man was jealous on the account that he believed that Glass Joe had spent much more time with Little Mac than he had with Von Kaiser that day; but that made him much more lovable in the younger boxer's eyes. He would have been dismayed had the older man been completely incapable of feeling such emotions. Von Kaiser was the polar opposite of Little Mac - logical, level-headed, more laid-back - but he could be just as irrational and passionate at times.

Speaking of eyes, what was that phrase that described envy and jealousy? 'Green-eyed', of course. Von Kaiser actually _had_ green eyes and it made that even more humorous.

"He said nothing of the kind, _mon cheri_. He was reasonably polite once he was calmed down. I saw to that and left straight away."

Von Kaiser's frown remained, but Glass Joe could see that he was becoming convinced. "I thought..." he muttered. "he'd... kept you behind somehow... and..."

The younger man chuckled, reaching up to pet the other's cheek fondly. "Of course not, Monsieur! Oh, you need not be _jaloux_! Little Mac is only seventeen - not only is he less than half my age, it would also be terribly _illegal_ for anything of that kind to happen. I want to spend much more time with you, and that is no lie."

"_Ach_, I wasn't suggesting anything! And I'm not _jealous_!" Von Kaiser snapped, although the Frenchman could sense that he was almost deliriously happy inside. "just come along already!" he then turned on his heels and walked away, though he seemed physically unable to get more than three steps ahead of Glass Joe. The latter jogged alongside him, clinging onto his arm and laughing. He'd succeeded in cheering up two rather different _'enfants' _that day, and that was good enough for him.

"Ah, _je t'aime, cher amoureux... je t'adore_..."

Von Kaiser rolled his eyes.

"_Mein Gott_, enough with the soft talk," he muttered, but this time he couldn't hide his smile.


	4. 04: Beyond Words

**Author's Note:** I've gotten away from Joseph de Verre for once! (party)

This oneshot is short, but it's also deliciously creepy. Don Flamenco's obsessive side comes out here and it's almost stalkerish at times. It's not slash, although I must admit it's dangerously close to it. Don't hit me. x.x It's more of a crackfic than anything. It contains extremely fangirlish descriptions of a certain boxer, so be warned.

It's pretty easy to guess who 'M' is. I just had to immortalize his _amazing_... nah, just read. It's easier that way. I won't be updating for a few days as I will be flying to Korea in the 21st of July - which is tomorrow - and not only is the flight 11 hours long, there is also the severe jetlag associated with halfway-across-the-world-flights. Once there the time will be around anywhere from 8-14 hours ahead of many of you, so please excuse me if I appear to update at unholy hours. x.x

Read and review please.

* * *

Don Flamenco had tried his utmost best to ignore it for months now, but he just couldn't anymore.

Every time he walked past _him_, he was overwhelmed with both joy and astonishment. The matador was fascinated with the other for one simple reason - his appearance. Sure, _he_ was about twenty years older then him and didn't seem to notice anyone very much; and it was for that very reason that Don Flamenco could watch him closely.

That man haunted his thoughts everywhere. The younger man had taken to calling him _M_, even referring to him as such in his journals and memos; that was how much he was obsessed with the man. M was, in his opinion, the most well-groomed person that he knew. His daily routine seemed extremely well-organized and orderly compared to everybody else in the WVBA, and the same also went for his appearance. While some might have scorned his never-changing complexion, Don Flamenco admired it.

He could just imagine M in the mornings. He would get up, stretch, make his bed straight away and go to the bathroom where he would make himself look presentable. The matador could imagine M now, running a comb through his hair and looking straight through the mirror at his reflection; perhaps he wouldn't even blink an eye while he was doing so, afraid that he would ruin the delicate process.

What made M so amazing in the young matador's eyes? He could sum it up in four things.

One, his personality. M was at first glance incredibly cold and emotionless, but Don Flamenco knew that this wasn't the case. The older man was surprisingly witty at times, even somewhat cynical in a way - his personality was a complicated mixture of logic and suppressed emotions that no one could really comprehend. It gave him an enigmatic aura that the matador found attractive (he was always for the mysterious type, man or woman). M was infamous for being the hardest person to approach in the WVBA, to the point where Don Flamenco could count the number of people that had ever spoken more than a few sentences to him in one hand - but as difficult as it seemed, it didn't stop the matador trying.

Second, his physique. Don Flamenco was about an inch or two taller than M, but he wasn't as well-built compared to him. M's body was an impressive, solid mass of muscle that was wonderful to look at. The matador gazed upon that body as a form of worship - he didn't feel any of the feelings he felt for Carmen when he looked at M, of course, but he did think that the older man had the ultimate masculine physique when it came to body shape. He was just right. Not to mention that fine cologne he had on when he wasn't boxing - the younger man could never place that scent as to exactly what it smelled like, but it suited M perfectly. Everything about his body, from the taut muscles to the slightly tanned skin, screamed macho. Don Flamenco had to wonder how such a well-built man could weigh so little, but he supposed it was much better than being overweight.

Third, his looks. M was hardly the most handsome person in the WVBA (Don Flamenco liked to think that he was handsomer than everyone else) but he looked charismatic. His eyes were a vibrant green, green as glass, and it was a stunning (but nevertheless beautiful) contrast to his hair. The matador had also noticed that M had a sort of 'beauty mark' under his right eye - not exactly a manly feature, but lovely nevertheless. He was fairly good-looking, save for a slight facial tic he had; Don Flamenco didn't exactly know what had happened to M, but that was about the only thing that made him flawed.

But the fourth was what took the cake. It was what amazed Don Flamenco more than anything, and even though he could ignore all of the above (if he_ really _tried), he could not ignore the final factor.

He could not even coherently describe what the fourth was. Some might have just summed it up as 'facial hair', but that was too... _ordinary_. Many other boxers had facial hair, but M's was just astonishing. Every time Don Flamenco walked past M, he was stunned at that extraordinary 'thing' that made the older man so _studly_. And M wondered why some women became hysterically overwhelmed whenever he went past them!

It wasn't just the fact that the 'thing' existed, the shape of it was unbelievable. Always well-trimmed, waxed and curled ever so slightly at the ends, a lot of time was obviously spent on taking care of it. Don Flamenco could quite safely assume that if there was one thing in the world M cared the most about, it would be his facial hair. The matador had attempted to mimic that amazing feat of mankind many times over, but he was simply too young and a bit too impatient to achieve it. For all he knew, M could have spent years taking care of it, and he knew that he himself could never do such a thing. He'd always believed that the ladies loved a well-shaven man, and had gone along with that.

Besides, it wouldn't go with his toupee at all. Perhaps when he was older.

But even then, he couldn't help his wishful thinking. M also had some unusually-shaped eyebrows that matched all his features perfectly - whilst his eyebrows were generally ignored in favour of Piston Hondo's, Don Flamenco much preferred the former's.

How was it that nobody else was noticing those things? Surely the matador wasn't the only one who realized just how _breathtaking_ M's facial hair was. Forget Picton Hondo's eyebrows, Bear Hugger's beard and everything else. M was the real deal.

His obsession had progressed to the point where the matador had begun contemplating seriously about stalking M back to his house and peering into his bathroom in the mornings to check how he was maintaining his facial hair. It was a bad thing, he knew - the whole thing was just so _wrong_ - but it was just so awe-inspiring...

Before he could quite get to the end of his train of thoughts, the door clicked open. Don Flamenco looked up - and instantly lowered his head again, his face flooding with colour. M himself had entered the room, breathing in the sweet morning air, well-groomed and dressed as always. The younger man tried not to let his eyes wander as the other walked across the room, hung up his bag and took out his gloves, ready for his daily training.

He had not noticed the younger man's presence. This was just slightly discouraging, but he mentally vowed not to let it get him down. Yes, today was the day. There was the opportunity and he would seize it with everything he had.

"Señor!" Don Flamenco called out as the other man was about to leave.

"_Ja_?" the older man turned around, an inquiring expression on his face. "what do you want?"

This was it, this was his chance...

"... How long does it take to wax your mustache?"

"..."

Silence.

Oh.

Oh _damn_.


	5. 05: Slumber, Part One

**Author's Note:** Ya... sorry guys, this was a long time coming. Epic fail on my part. Sorry about that, had writer's block and major jetlag when I came to Korea. I'm a bit more adjusted to the time here, but it makes me almost cry to think that I need to go through the same thing when I go back to England. I'm so going to die. x.x

So... yeah, this is a two-parter. I wanted the thing to be shorter, but things turned out that way and now you're getting a two-part story. It's not even meant to be a very long one - it spans around five hours, but the given details are around an hour and a half at the most. I don't know if this is meant to be slashy or not - there's no kissing or romance or anything like that involved, but I can see some subconsciously-added undertones. I would classify this as containing slashy hints, but not full-on slash.

Von Kaiser takes care of an injured, bruised Glass Joe. That is pretty much all the story is. Enjoy. Part two will be up soon.

* * *

The clock chimed six o'clock.

Von Kaiser paced around the changing rooms, deep in thought. He only stopped occasionally to gaze up at the clock, and then afterwards would begin to pace again, staring at nothing in particular. The room was dark, for he had not turned the light on. He hadn't thought it necessary, for there was still some light creeping from the outside. There was nobody else with him - he was alone in the silence - but he did not mind the atmosphere in the slightest. The man welcomed it more than anything; he was never the one for interacting with other people.

But tonight he was waiting for a certain person.

"_Wo bist du_?" he muttered to himself. The one he was waiting for had been in a match at half past five. Surely his match had ended more than fifteen minutes ago. What was taking him so long? He would give it five more minutes, and if he didn't turn up-

The door creaked open ever so slightly. Von Kaiser stopped in his tracks and peered in the direction of the door as a man stumbled inside, supporting himself on the walls; his breathing was rough and jagged, and he seemed to have trouble standing up straight. The doorway was too poorly lit for the German to get a proper view of this man - he quickly walked over and draped the other's arm around his shoulders, helping him across the room. The latter didn't resist, and only leaned against the wall tiredly when Von Kaiser sat him down on a bench.

"Joseph?" he asked quietly; rather than a coherent reply, what he wanted was a sign that the other man could hear and understand him. "how are you feeling? Can you speak?"

The man - known as Joseph to Von Kaiser, and Glass Joe to others - shook his head weakly.

Von Kaiser stood up again and left the room; he came back a minute later holding a basin of cold water, a clean towel, a small bag of medical supplies and an ice pack. His hand reached out for the switch as he entered, clicking it on, illuminating the changing rooms with a bright, fluorescent light. Glass Joe winced at the sudden brightness, closing his eyes and shrinking back.

"_Es tut mir leid_," the German said softly, putting down the items on a nearby bench. "that was unintentional. Now let me look at you."

The Frenchman lifted his face up slightly to allow for inspection; the older man held him gently (but kept a firm grip) and peered in close.

"_Gott im Himmel_," Von Kaiser muttered as he lifted the other's face slightly and assessed the damage. "it's one of the worst I've seen."

Glass Joe said nothing, but dropped his gaze, a sad expression on his face. Even that seemed to be difficult to him - the bruises on his jaw made it virtually impossible for him to smile, frown or even speak. The bruise over his left eye made it too painful for him to keep that eye open, and his right cheek was heavily swollen.

In short, Glass Joe was a mess.

Von Kaiser decided that talking wasn't going to get either of them anywhere, and opted to focus on the injuries. He picked up the towel and soaked it in the ice-cold water, soon squeezing the excess water out, and began to wipe gently at the bruises. The sudden cold caused the Frenchman to gasp and whimper; but he soon calmed down as the pain was soothed.

"_Mein Gott_, you look like hell," the German boxer said softly, dabbing lightly at a bruise on Glass Joe's cheek with the wet towel; he picked up the ice pack, and motioned for the other to hold it against his swollen face. Glass Joe did so, closing his eyes and moaning ever so quietly as he leaned into the blissful coolness.

"_Ça me fait mal,_" he murmured weakly, half to himself and half to the older man.

"Keep still," Von Kaiser muttered. "and I don't understand French."

Glass Joe offered no reply. He was too exhausted to say more than a few words at a time, and simply let the older man continue what he was doing, only occasionally repositioning the ice pack against his face. He felt something oily being rubbed into his skin, the rustle of a band-aid being stuck onto a cut on his forehead, and noted how his injuries were being soothed. He still hadn't quite gotten used to the feeling of Von Kaiser looking after him in this way, but he had to admit that it felt good. The older man had a comforting scent around him - although usually reluctant to show any softness, in times like these he was so much gentler than anyone he'd ever known.

"How badly are you bruised?" the German boxer broke the silence with this question. "does your stomach hurt?"

"Yes..." Glass Joe answered. The swelling on his face was numbed, and he found that he could speak with more clarity. "I believe... I have received the worst injuries since last year."

Von Kaiser let his breath out in a slight hiss as he looked down at the younger man; purple-and-black bruises decorated the skin of his abdomen. Many people usually focused on hitting the Frenchman's jaw when they fought him, so his stomach was never too hurt - however, he was equally bruised on _both _areas tonight. Von Kaiser had never had to pay much attention to Glass Joe's abdomen before, so this was rather new to him.

"Lie down," the older man commanded after thinking for a while. "try to relax."

This order was followed by hesitance. Glass Joe looked down, biting his lip, not sure whether he should comply - couldn't Von Kaiser just leave the bruises be, or at least treat them while he was sitting up? But he knew better than to test the German's patience. A mere hint of disobedience would probably earn him a punch and he didn't want that. Von Kaiser wasn't famous for his ability to deal with such matters. So he laid down on the bench, letting out a shaky breath, trying to calm himself.

Von Kaiser soaked the towel again, squeezed the water out of the cloth, and wiped the bruises with it. He was admittedly very gentle - he said nothing throughout the entire process, only focusing on the task at hand. When he was done, he pulled out another kind of ointment and rubbed it lightly into a cut on the younger man's chest; he had no idea how Glass Joe had managed to get a cut _there_ of all places, but he wasn't in the best of situations to ask.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, more to break the uncomfortable silence than anything else.

"A little..." Glass Joe winced as the ointment stung his wounds. "Monsieur... it really is kind of you, but-"

"But nothing," Von Kaiser cut him off (not unkindly), and lapsed back into silence again. He wasn't going to have any protests. Putting away the ointment, he peeled off the covering on a band-aid and stuck it on the cut carefully; luckily the cut wasn't too deep, and would heal in a couple of days.

Glass Joe, meanwhile, was experiencing some inner turmoil. Von Kaiser was so gentle with him - he would never have expected it, but it felt _nice_, far too nice. The German boxer's hands were large and pleasantly warm. Glass Joe mewled softly, a blush colouring his cheeks, when Von Kaiser placed his right hand on the younger man's abdomen; he'd expected it to hurt his already-injured stomach, but it hadn't. On the contrary, having the other's warm hand resting on his skin proved exceptionally soothing.

Not to mention _intimate_, if he thought about it.

Von Kaiser didn't seem as if he had noticed the other's blush. He simply continued with his work, only vaguely noting the smoothness of Glass Joe's taut skin; his mind was more focused on the process itself than anything else, but he noticed that much. The older man paused for a second, letting his thoughts wander elsewhere.

The whole after-fight ritual had begun around six months ago. There had been no explanations provided, nor were there any protests. They hardly even talked during the whole process. Von Kaiser had just decided one day that he wasn't going to put up with leaving Glass Joe's injuries untreated; he had watched the younger man stumbling in, glancing at his bruises and falling asleep in exhaustion one too many times.

But Von Kaiser didn't know when he had started caring so much. At the start Glass Joe had thought the whole thing extremely odd, and he had to admit that he himself had entertained the same doubts. The Frenchman had been vastly unresponsive the first few times, only giving him uneasy glances now and then as his wounds were bathed. Those glances had bothered the German boxer to the point where he had seriously considered just giving up and walking out of the room many times over. But now Glass Joe let him do what he wished, even seemingly looking forward to those moments with the older man. One time, he'd forgotten that the younger man had a match, and therefore had neglected to prepare anything; when Glass Joe entered the room, he had gazed around with a vaguely hopeful look. Von Kaiser had looked back in shock, realizing his mistake too late - the Frenchman had sighed disappointedly before walking back out of the changing rooms again.

He had thought this at the beginning; why give Glass Joe the privilage of having his injuries treated immediately after a fight? Not even the most accomplished boxers had that. They usually had to wait and take care of themselves before they were treated. Von Kaiser took care of the younger man even when he himself was injured; it honestly wasn't as if Glass Joe was a rookie boxer who needed constant care and attention, so his actions struck him as rather illogical. It wasn't that he was unable to treat himself, either; during the past years the Frenchman had always been able to take care of his own bruises and cuts. Why should it be any different now? Von Kaiser knew that he was in danger of alienating more than one person - not only could he cause Glass Joe to withdraw, the other boxers could think him quite senile. As far as he knew, nobody else cared that much about the younger man.

But it seemed that his efforts were paying off. The Frenchman was now far closer to him than anyone else; when Von Kaiser walked in with bruises himself, Glass Joe would fuss over him and give him some basic treatment. This was very limited, yes, for the younger man was shy about touching his body; but even that was a good thing to the German. At least the Frenchman wasn't staying away from him.

"All done," he finally stepped back, having pressed the last band-aid to the other's chest. "do you feel better now?"

Glass Joe sat up slowly, looking down at himself. He indeed seemed far better, although still slightly shaken; the swelling had gone down quite quickly, and now he resembled his normal self more than he had half an hour ago. He nodded in reply, his eyes showing all the gratitude he had for the older man.

"Thank you..." he whispered softly. "how can I ever pay you back?"

Von Kaiser waved this off. "_Nein_, it had to be done. You owe me nothing," he leaned in closer as the younger man stretched his body, seeing the light of fatigue finally entering his eyes. "are you tired?"

"_Oui_, I'm afraid so," the Frenchman attempted to stand up, wanting nothing more than to get home and sleep; however, his body wouldn't allow him to do so. It demanded rest and wanted it immediately. Seeing this, the German boxer reached over and picked up the younger man in his arms; ignoring the other's soft yelp at this act, he sat back down and gathered him on his lap, letting his head rest in his arms.

"Sleep," Von Kaiser said quietly. "you can do nothing in that state. Rest as long as you wish."

"Is that really all right with you?

"It is."

The Frenchman smiled at him, and then curled himself slightly as to press himself closer to the older man's chest.

"You are so good to me," Glass Joe whispered as he reached out a hand; he touched the older man's face gently, showing his gratitude. "_vous devez __ê__tre..._ _un ange_..."

Von Kaiser said nothing, but leaned his cheek into the touch, closing his eyes. He briefly dwelt on what the younger man had said - while he had learnt a little of the language, his French was admittedly limping and he was incapable of understanding whole sentences. As a result, he could not understand what Glass Joe had said and that made him feel somewhat empty inside; but the one word he had understood implicated that the Frenchman still didn't consider him someone close.

"It is perfectly all right to use _'tu'_ instead of _'vous' _with me," he said quietly. "just as I refer to you as _'du' _instead of _'sie'_. We have known each other close to eight years. Surely we are close enough to drop _some_ formalities between ourselves, _nein_?"

Glass Joe managed a small smile.

"Why, but you _do_ understand some French after all, Monsieur," he whispered, nuzzling into the older man's arms - and then suddenly, without warning, he was asleep. His body went completely limp and his head lolled back slightly - Von Kaiser shifted around as to allow for maximum comfort. Glass Joe was famous for his constant naps; unfortunately, this also made him the target of some boxers who seemed to look upon the Frenchman as a punching bag and attacked him in his sleep. It wouldn't hurt to watch over him for a while and ensure that no one was preying on him.

He leaned back into the wall and let out a quiet sigh, staring at the clock.


	6. 06: Slumber, Part Two

**Author's Note:** Second chapter is done and this little story is finished. No matter how much I try, in the process of making Glass Joe adorable I seem to slip in slashy hints. As a result this chapter is kind of slashy but it's not even meant to be. If two guys can't hug or touch each other without being gay, I'd cry.

I fail horribly in writing accents. Any accent falls into this generalization. This was also my first attempt in writing dialogue for the other WVBA boxers (excluding Glass Joe, Von Kaiser, Don Flamenco and Little Mac) who I have not yet dedicated a whole chapter to. I think I did fine on the ambiguously-sparkly-gay one, but I failed with the lumberjack. I'm so sorry. At this rate I might write a chapter written entirely in Hippo-speech; at least that is probably a lot more coherent than what I'm writing now.

Von Kaiser is wildly schizophrenic when it comes to driving. At least, that's how I see it. Somebody else with him in the same car, he's driving safely (unless he's sitting next to Disco Kid, in which case I can imagine him purposefully initiating a car crash). But if he's alone and perhaps driving in one of the German Autobahns - mayhem ensures for miles. If you're wondering what this has got to with the story, just read on.

* * *

Von Kaiser stayed there for a long time, holding the Frenchman close in an embrace. He hardly moved from his original position, nor did he say anything - he just sat there, held Glass Joe in his arms and only occasionally glanced down at the other's sleeping face. Glass Joe was unusually calm and relaxed; it was only in sleep that he could get away from the other boxers and the constant jeers. No wonder he looked happier asleep than awake. Even when unprovoked, the Frenchman would often twitch nervously when he was awake, his eyes darting around in a panic. There was none of that now.

It struck him all of a sudden that although he had seen the younger man napping many times, he had never really looked at him whilst asleep. Von Kaiser was a man who minded his business and therefore would leave many boxers alone - the only time he interacted with them was when he was boxing or debating, and even then he was fairly self-contained. As a result, he had never really noticed much about the people around him.

Sure, he had known Glass Joe for eight years (and considered the Frenchman one of the people closest to him) but that was vastly in the area of simply knowing that the other existed. He enjoyed talking with the younger man, and they sometimes had lunch together, but their conversations were never personal. Von Kaiser didn't believe in showing his feelings openly to people in general, let alone of the same gender. Whether he cared for them or not was irrelevant, even in the case of the Frenchman; he respected and admired the other, but he never showed it. He doubted that Glass Joe understood why he cared so much - simply because Von Kaiser had never given any indication as to how much he liked the younger man. Of course, Glass Joe was only four years below him in age. He was old enough to notice the slightest changes in other people's behaviour and understand their implications. The older man did not doubt that he had realized that Von Kaiser was infinitely more kind to him than to anyone else. He thought back to what the Frenchman had said - _'you are so good to me' _- and was therefore convinced of this.

He looked closely at Glass Joe. The latter wasn't really a pretty sight to look at, with the bruises and his swollen face; but despite that, his expression was serene. He slept very quietly, only the slow, regular heaving of his chest being the indication that he was alive; he breathed so quietly that Von Kaiser couldn't even really hear it, even though the room was totally silent. Glass Joe sometimes frowned lightly in his sleep, or fidgeted, but those moments were few and far between. All the fear was gone - there was only the soft, gentle and slightly nervous expression that was the real face of the Frenchman.

The clock struck eight o'clock. The final match of the day had just ended; Von Kaiser knew that within minutes, he would be found out by the boxers who came in to change. But somehow, he had no desire to run. He had been teased enough about caring for Glass Joe - sometimes he inevitably had to take care of him in front of the others - but when they saw him holding the Frenchman in his arms, he knew that they would never leave him be. Unless he left Glass Joe alone, even for a minute, the whole situation was nothing but disadvantageous to him. Von Kaiser knew that too well.

And yet he stayed.

The door soon creaked open. A very beaten-down Disco Kid stumbled in and made his way straight to the showers (not noticing them); although Von Kaiser frowned at this, he was relieved that it wasn't someone like Aran Ryan. At least he could _somewhat_ deal with Disco Kid. He stayed in the showers for a long time, perhaps trying to make himself look somewhat acceptable - a wasted effort, the German boxer thought to himself with a smirk. The boy wasn't presentable at all in nearly all places, being uncomfortably flamboyant. At least, that was the way he saw it.

Soon enough, the door opened again, and this time a very large person wedged himself into the room, peering around in the direction of the showers. "Yeh in there, kid?" he hollered.

"Yeah..." a mumbled reply came from the showers.

"Told yeh I'd win, eh?"

This was followed by some incomprehensible grumbling from the boy; he was probably muttering curses, but none of them could hear it. Satisfied, the large man put his hands on his hips with a smile on his face - and did a double take as he spotted Von Kaiser. "Kaiser? What're yeh doing 'ere - hey, is that _Joe_? What's-"

"A very long story, Bear Hugger," the older man said quietly. "please don't ask me to explain."

Bear Hugger still looked confused, but he nodded. He peered in close to the sleeping man's face, noting the bruises. "Eh, the poor thing! Y'alright with holdin' him?" a nod. "I gotta run in a min', Kaiser, but tell Joe I said hi, 'kay?"

"Understood."

"Could I hug you both 'fore I go?"

"_**Nein**_."

Bear Hugger laughed good-naturedly as he looked at the older man. "Nah, jess kiddin'. Seems Joe here likes it wit' you. Yeh'll be fine."

Von Kaiser opened his mouth to reply, but then Disco Kid emerged from the shower stalls, wearing only his boxers and a towel around his shoulders. He raised his face, which had a large bruise on the side - and smiled cockily at Bear Hugger, showing a couple of missing teeth. "I've been beaten up harder than this! Don't you think this is over, lumberjack boy!"

The Canadian failed to respond, too disturbed to even consider why the young man would call him 'lumberjack boy' - but he was saved from having to give an answer. The German boxer had been trying to edge himself into a corner, unwilling to face him, but to no avail; as Disco Kid finally spotted Von Kaiser and Glass Joe, he flinched and took a couple of steps back, eyes widening. "whoa, man! Is that - Von Kaiser? And... _Joey_? Oh my Lord, what _is_ this?"

The older man rolled his eyes but didn't answer.

"A-are you guys _hugging_? R-really?" Disco Kid spluttered, still in utter disbelief. "man, that's _way_ beyond-"

"Shaddup and put some _clothes_ on, yeh hoser!" Bear Hugger suddenly roared. Disco Kid jumped back, yelping in shock; without another word, he put his trousers and shirt on. He was still shaking his head and muttering 'unreal, man, totally unreal' - but when Von Kaiser glared daggers at him, he flinched and ran out of the door without a second glance. The Canadian sighed heavily and rubbed his brow, giving Von Kaiser an apologetic look.

"Yeh think he'll tell?"

Von Kaiser said nothing, but the lumberjack could see that his facial tic was getting more prominent; he was obviously getting quite agitated inside. But then he took a deep breath, settling down somewhat. "I doubt it. _Not if he wants to keep his head and body attached_."

The Canadian blinked. "Whoa, Kaiser. Strong words there."

"I apologize. I simply dislike _Kinder_ of all kinds. Not to mention that _he_-" here Von Kaiser jerked his thumb towards the door. "-acts less than half his age all the time."

Bear Hugger had to agree on this (albeit quite reluctantly), but he was willing to give peace a chance more than anything else. He wasn't about to enter a debate about children right now, knowing that the German was extremely vocal in those matters. "Nah, he won't tell. I'll make sure. An' I gotta go, Kaiser - see yeh later."

Von Kaiser nodded. "_Guten Nacht_."

* * *

Time continued to pass by. Von Kaiser shook himself awake from a light doze; he looked around, as alert as ever. That brief couple of hours' sleep had proved to be more refreshing than anything; noting that the view outside was dark, he looked at the clock to see it read half past eleven.

Glass Joe was _still_ asleep.

Although he didn't quite want to admit it, Von Kaiser was now becoming increasingly alarmed. He had now been sleeping for five hours - that wasn't a nap, it was a full-on sleeping session. He didn't want to wake the younger man, but he had to get him home nonetheless. They couldn't sit here forever, could they?

The German boxer was about to shake the other awake when the Frenchman stirred - he frowned lightly, and let out a low moan. Von Kaiser watched, half spellbound as he gazed upon this sight - Glass Joe was waking up, slowly but steadily. First his eyelids fluttered open, revealing soft brown eyes glazed with sleep; but eventually his gaze cleared, and he looked straight into Von Kaiser's face in recognition.

"_Quelle heure est-il_?" Glass Joe murmured, his eyes blinking sleepy-slow, trying to rouse himself. "what time is it, Monsieur?"

Von Kaiser remained silent for a moment. "Half past eleven," he finally answered.

The Frenchman's reaction came as completely unexpected to him. Glass Joe leapt up (quite forgetting that he was injured), eyes wide in horror as soon as he heard the older man's reply. "_Half past eleven_! Monsieur, why - _why_ did you not wake me? We've been here for five hours!"

The older boxer could honestly not find a way to reply to this statement; why hadn't he, indeed? Had he really been in the room for that long? It sure hadn't felt like it; it hadn't quite registered in his mind how long they had been in the room. But either way he had to face the cold, hard facts - it was late at night, he'd dragged both of them into an unlikable situation and he couldn't give an answer as to why. His actions were illogical - so completely illogical - that he himself could not comprehend it. Von Kaiser kept silent for another couple of seconds whilst he tried to find the most honest, plausible answer to give.

"I didn't want to wake you," was his final reply. "you seemed so peaceful."

That was the only reply he could give. And he would die before he told the Frenchman about Bear Hugger and Disco Kid; the younger man had had quite enough for that day, and so had Von Kaiser. No point in adding more complex explanations that night. Glass Joe merely stared at him incredulously before he sat back down, his shoulders slumping heavily. "Oh, _Mon Dieu_! What am I to do now? I need to get back to my apartment and get ready for tomorrow..."

"_Beruhigen du sich_!" Von Kaiser said curtly. "I apologize for not waking you, Joseph, but we cannot dwell on it. I will help you any way I can. Is your apartment far from here?"

"Half-hour by bus and a ten-minute walk," Glass Joe replied. "it's rather far off. And in my state..."

Von Kaiser nodded. The Frenchman was in no state to travel in public transport - not only was he injured from his match, he was also quite likely to be mugged. And that was if the bus was even available that late at night. "When does the last bus that goes in the direction of your apartment come?"

"Eleven o'clock," Glass Joe let out a resigned, almost bemused laugh. "I've missed it completely."

"I could drive you there," Von Kaiser offered. "or would you still have to take that ten-minute walk?"

The younger man nodded. "It's such a small place for cars to get in and the roads are mostly one-way. It's much too difficult to try to navigate there, Monsieur."

"Well, I could walk you to your apartment after parking my car somewhere."

"_C'est __tr__è__s gentil_, Monsieur, but I would hate to bother you so late at night... please do not worry about me. I can stay here until morning. I've done it before."

Von Kaiser shook his head. "_Nicht_! I will not allow it. If none of those options are preferable, at least come and spend the night in my house."

This proposal came as a complete surprise to the younger man, who stepped back slightly and stared at the German. Von Kaiser met his stare steadily, unblinking, showing that he was in earnest. "No matter what you say, I cannot abandon you. Either I drive you back and walk you to your place, or we go to my house for the night. I will not consider anything else."

This choice was almost impossible. Glass Joe didn't want to put the other man in danger - where he lived was also home to a few gangs roaming the streets late at night. He doubted that two boxers would be enough to take them down if they were ever ambushed. And even if the Frenchman got home safely, Von Kaiser would still have to walk back. That was too much unnecessary danger there. He had only faced one of those gangs once, late at night, and had managed to escape with barely a scratch simply because he was fast and nimble enough to run from them. He wasn't going through that again, and definitely not with another person by his side.

But he didn't want to inconvenience the Von Kaiser by staying at his house, either. He had never been invited to another man's house before, and now honestly wasn't the best of times to take up such an invitation. Sure, he was tempted to go and find out more about this enigmatic man and how he lived - he had known Von Kaiser for the longest time, but he also knew next to nothing about him. However, the more logical part of his mind told him that he couldn't just _go_ to the other's house - what if there were other people there? Or what if the place turned out to be too small for both of them?

"Monsieur, please do not feel that you must aid me in order to apologize," he said awkwardly. "you've been kind enough to me already. I have no desire to put you in danger by insisting I go back to my apartment... but I honestly have no desire to intrude, either."

The German boxer looked hard at him. "What's worrying you? We can work something out. Tell me your concerns."

"I might disturb your family."

"I have none," this remark came as a surprise - Glass Joe stared at him with shock. He had always been under the impression that Von Kaiser was married and had at least his spouse living with him. "all my relatives are in _Deutschland_. I am also unmarried - I have never been married in my life - and you know how I feel about having _Kinder_ within a few metres of me. Any more worries?"

Glass Joe chuckled nervously at the comment, rubbing his head slightly. Now that he knew that the other was unmarried, previously-unnoticed signs became visible; there was no wedding ring on Von Kaiser's finger, and Glass Joe had never once heard him talking about his family. How could he have missed those things? But enough of that. He had other worries to think about.

"Well... I... _ça alors_! I might be a nuisance, taking up your space..."

"I believe that when you see my house, you wouldn't say such things."

"You live _alone_ in a large house?"

Von Kaiser smirked. "That's the accurate description of it. Anything else?"

The Frenchman said nothing. He did indeed have one final worry, but there was no way he was going to tell it straight to the other's face. It might very well be the last thing he would ever say. But Von Kaiser was quick enough to guess.

"Are you worried about my driving?" the German boxer laughed good-heartedly, seeing on the other's face that he was correct. "you would have every right to be if I were driving alone - no, don't look so terrified! This time I will be with you. I drive very safely. Do not fret."

Any more attempts to persuade the older man was useless. Glass Joe could see that all too clearly; he sighed and smiled, a resigned look on his face. "There is no point in me trying to refuse any longer, _non_? Oh, Monsieur... you're impossible. "

"_Danke schön_," Von Kaiser replied off-handedly, and then patted the younger man on the back. "so you're coming? I promise you, you won't regret it. And you need to eat... you must be hungry..."

This was true. The Frenchman didn't reply, but nodded a few times to show that the other was correct. He had not eaten since three o'clock that afternoon - and even that had been a very light meal to give him the energy he needed for a couple of hours.

"I'll cook you something. I make very good schnitzel," Von Kaiser allowed himself a small smile. "you can chew food, _ja_?"

"_Oui._ As long as it's not tough, I believe so."

The older man laughed. "Tough schnitzel is not what I make. You'll be fine."

Glass Joe finally decided once and for all; he voiced his acceptance of Von Kaiser's invitation, which was received with a smile and nod from the older man. The Frenchman changed into his normal clothing while Von Kaiser looked around the changing rooms, searching for anything that might have been left behind by the other boxers. There were no such items to be found - satisfied, he led Glass Joe out of the room and turned off the lights, closing the door behind him.

"Can you walk?"

"I can, Monsieur. Thank you for your concern."

Von Kaiser nodded. "_Das ist gut_; I was thinking you might be too weak to move. You'll feel much better when you have something to eat."

Glass Joe looked up at him, a smile of gratitude on his face. "_Merci beaucoup_, Monsieur. For... everything," he took hold of the other's arm with both hands and leaned into his shoulder, walking along in blissful silence. Von Kaiser looked down at him briefly before wrapping his arm around the younger man - Glass Joe chuckled, and pressed himself closer to the older man's body, enjoying the warmth. Von Kaiser seemed to never tire; from what Glass Joe knew, the older man had taken care of him, held him while he was sleeping, and was now going to drive them to his house. All that required energy - the Frenchman doubted if he had eaten or slept all the time he had been holding the younger man.

"Did you sleep at all, Monsieur?"

"_Ein wenig_," the older man replied. "I feel fine. I need very little sleep," he tightened his grip on the other's waist as the latter stumbled slightly; they were outside of the WVBA building now, and Glass Joe shivered lightly as the breeze brushed past his cheek. "be careful. I have no equipment here to treat you should you gain more injuries."

Glass Joe smiled. "_À mon avis_ - I believe you should be concerned more about yourself, Monsieur. You've had nothing to eat and practically no sleep."

"Let us have a good meal first. Then we can think about getting some sleep."

"But I've had five hours' worth already," the Frenchman said as they reached the car park. "I would most likely be up for longer."

"Then you can watch over me while I sleep," Von Kaiser stated matter-of-factly as he looked around for his car. He located it almost immediately and started towards it, leading Glass Joe along. "just as I did with you. Fair enough, _nein_?"

Glass Joe laughed and nuzzled lightly into the other's shoulder.

"Then it's a deal, Monsieur."


	7. 07: Stories

**Author's Note:**This contains both Glass Joe and Von Kaiser, but has no focus on them and the story contains no slash. Do not fret.

This is something in Super Macho Man's point of view. It's not really... you know... cheerful. I'd say this was more of an exploration piece than anything and I'm quite aware Super Macho Man is the last person in the WVBA who's likely to be concerned with other people. But it collects all the theories I've had for the boxers' backstories, you see, and make it into something coherent. So although this is in SMM's point of view, I'd actually say this story is about pretty much every boxer. But I needed a journalist-character to make this happen. My first choice was Bald Bull (surprisingly), because he's the first one to be seen with paparazzi following his every move. Yet I couldn't see him going around collecting stories from other people. He's not that kind of person. I pondered upon that for a while. Heck, I even considered the referee as the main character. xD

So I chose Super Macho Man in the end. He's a jackass in-game, but I can't help but think he has a complex for attention ('WHY DON'T YOU LOVE ME? DD:'). Please enjoy the very out-of-character SMM and the very failed accent of Bear Hugger and the terribly speculative backstories of the boxers. I should stress that _none of this is canon._ These are simply my theories that may or may not be used again, and they're all mine with the exception of Aran Ryan's story - you'll see when you get there. SMM has no accent because I don't know how to write a Californian-style accent. I also don't know how to write a Canadian accent because I've never met a Canadian in my life. I fail. D:

Chaos Wielder/ About the 'The older man did not doubt that he had realized that Von Kaiser was infinitely more kind to him than to anyone else' bit. It is a bit confusing, I should say - but my intentions were a bit different to what you stated. If I replaced every 'him', 'he' etc into names, it would be 'Von Kaiser did not doubt that Glass Joe had realized that Von Kaiser was infinitely more kind to Glass Joe than to anyone else'. xD Ah, the English language and its complex grammar structure! x.x

* * *

Super Macho Man knew everyone's stories in the WVBA.

This was a typically-boastful assumption made by none other than himself, of course. And it most definitely wasn't an accurate assumption, either. He was only twenty-seven, and what with being young and also a notorious womanizer, he really wasn't around enough to truly know every single boxer. However, it was true that he posessed a variety of knowledge about everyone; while most boxers simply knew much about their few close friends' stories and almost nothing about others, Super Macho Man knew a little of everyone's. And it was this that helped him gain some respect from most people in the association. When collecting those stories, he approached those boxers with the necessary friendliness, but with also the hawk-like precision of a journalist; he himself had picked up on those methods after being chased so long by the eager reporters and paparazzi. Whilst he sat in a cafe near the WVBA building, he pondered upon those tales and what they meant to him.

Those 'stories' weren't just rumours about the boxers, or their legendary achievements. They were about how the boxers had made their way into the WVBA, and what they did in the past before they formed their careers - so basically, these were past life stories. A distinctly personal thing for some, Super Macho Man nevertheless loved collecting those tales. They helped him form opinions of said boxer in a more _fair_ manner. Before, he had usually picked fights with people he didn't like at that particular moment; but ever since he had listened to the first life story of a boxer (who happened to be Glass Joe), he had stopped, much to the relief of his manager who thought that his temper needed some control. Instead of being angry at every boxer who dared to lay a punch on him, he often thought about their past and decided on whether he should let it go or if he could carry on being mad for a while.

Some stories were happy ones. Soda Popinski had been the son of a brewer who soon took over the business; he had taken up boxing in the meantime as a way to exercise whilst he was cooped up in the brewhouse, and had somehow become so good at it that he took over the third position in the World Circuit. He still owned the brewery business, but now it manufactured soda pop instead; either way, money was rolling in for him. That was good. No losers there. Another story involved Don Flamenco, who had started bullfighting when he had turned fourteen and so far had fought over a hundred bulls without receiving any serious injury. That was some record for a twenty-three year old matador. Along with that, his good looks and his status as a Major Circuit Champion meant that there were always women around him. But unlike Super Macho Man, the Spaniard was much more willing to commit and was currently happy with his girlfriend, Carmen. And that was good as well. But this also meant that Super Macho Man was just a little less easier on them.

Some stories were sad. Glass Joe had been abandoned merely two days after his birth and had spent much of his early years at an orphanage; he had never known who his parents were. Despite that he had worked hard and had gained enough money to get himself a place of his own as soon as he was old enough. When he became twenty-two, he had led a frantic search to find his purpose in life which lasted almost five years - in that timespan, he had graduated with good marks from his Parisian university, worked overnight jobs, and had fallen ill with exhaustion far too many times. This, and a nasty bout of pneumonia he once had weakened him for life. He finally discovered that he had some talent in boxing, and that led him to the WVBA. Although he never seemed to be good enough to advance in the ranks, he was happy there and had made more friends than he ever had elsewhere. He'd even found someone who would care for him whenever he was down. That one had truly moved the white-haired man, although he hadn't let it show. He made sure to leave Glass Joe in peace afterwards.

Some stories were unbelievable in many ways. Piston Hondo and Great Tiger both told him tales of their meditation and the almost-supernatural abilities they had acquired during the entire process. Super Macho Man had noted them down, but he couldn't quite bring himself to believe some of those anecdotes; how could Piston Hondo have the speed to outrun a bullet train and yet still stay around the bottom of the Major Circuit? It simply defied the boundaries of all logic.

And then there were stories that weren't even possible to get. Several boxers would not tell him their full stories, preferring to keep silent or even make some of it up to throw him off guard; Von Kaiser was a very good example of the silent treatment. Super Macho Man had tried to get the older man talking countless times, but when the conversation edged into the faintest trace of his past, the German would simply stop talking. The white-haired man thought that if he stopped beating around the bush and instead asked Von Kaiser directly, he might be a little more successful; he wasn't. The German boxer had just looked at him, stood up and had walked away. So he had to rely on rumours, guesses and what little he did know about the man to build up a life story for Von Kaiser.

Some he asked told him that the German was of noble blood, whose father had defected to the USA around the beginning of the crisis in Berlin, and had begun living a different, more normal life. The same story also had Von Kaiser teaching children at a boxing academy and getting severely traumatized as a result. Some said that Von Kaiser was a disgraced baron - who had either grown tired of his responsibilities, or had become entangled in an unfortunate relationship (the story varied depending on who told it) - and had left Europe to start a new, anonymous life in America. Personally, Super Macho Man thought that neither of those tales had much truth in them; but when he thought about the fact that Von Kaiser had a kind of unusual grace about him, or the fact that he had been an officer in the military, or even the 'von' in his name, he had admit that the older man most likely was from a noble family. Other than that, he knew nothing else. From what little he knew, Von Kaiser was a man who hated children with a passion, had been a German military officer, and had also been a boxing instructor in said military. That was all.

And talking of silence, King Hippo's story was_ impossible_ to understand. The huge island of a man was happy enough to talk, of course, but Super Macho Man couldn't understand a word of what he was saying. He had managed to gather from the others that the Hippo islanders worshipped him as a god and idol, and that everyone was morbidly obese in said island, but nothing else about the King's past.

Well, it was better than nothing.

Also, his version of Aran Ryan's story kept on changing as the Irishman continued to make up things and lie about his past; it was blatantly obvious that Aran didn't want anyone to know his life story and was just trying to mess with him. But Super Macho Man had still managed to gather some information from the occasional slips of the tongue. Aran had a notoriously pretty older sister who had overshadowed him from the very beginning, and he had a kind of sibling love/hate relationship with her. He loved her as a sister, of course, but most of the time he couldn't stand her presence to the point where he insulted people with his sister's name. That also accounted for his continuous want of attention - he would do _anything_, no matter how dangerous or disruptive, to put himself in the spotlight he hardly ever had when he was a child. This trait had came out immediately when Aran had first entered the association - a handsome young boxer called Narcis Prince had entered alongside him, and he had borne much resemblance to Aran's sister in both looks, popularity and personality. Aran had never been able to stand the Englishman, and had done everything to tamper with the other's records and boxing matches; the Irishman had often passed it off as rivalry between Ireland and England. But when Narcis Prince finally left, Aran Ryan had done so much damage that everyone had marked him as a troublemaker and rogue. This reputation only grew stronger as the Irishman grew older and nastier, and everyone knew that he would forever be marked as such.

* * *

So as one could see, every boxer had wildly different stories about their origin. Those stories were the only things that Super Macho Man ever sworn secrecy to and actually _kept_; he was usually happy to dish the dirt on someone he didn't like, but no matter how annoyed he was at a certain person, he would never reveal anything about their personal history. This was partly because he knew that anything like that could very well trigger others to delve into his not-so-respectable lifestyle; that wouldn't do at all. He knew that being second only to Sandman in the ranks would mean nothing if the boxers all banded together to work against him. But mostly, it was because he felt a kind of complex whenever he heard those tales - compared to everybody else, Super Macho Man had had nothing too interesting or spectacular happen before he came to the WVBA. He had grown up from a reasonably well-off family, went to a reasonably good boxing school, had never really experienced any hardships in life and had entered the WVBA without many problems.

Sure enough, his life had been _good _- but certainly not _remarkable_ or _exciting_. Glass Joe, in that aspect, had been infinitely more successful than he had; whilst the white-haired man never had to improve on anything, the Frenchman had dragged himself from the very bottom to a better place. He'd also stumbled upon boxing as a career after many failed tries, learning more with each failure, whilst Super Macho Man had always wanted to be a boxer when he was little. There hadn't been any particular delight in discovering his good points.

Of course, there was no denying that Super Macho Man was happy with the life he had. There was no way he could have endured some of the things that the other boxers had - he wouldn't have wanted to live in their shoes at any point of their lives. He liked being surrounded by girls and he liked holding the number one spot in the World Circuit. But the only thing that bothered him was that whenever he heard those tales, he felt inadequate in a way that he couldn't describe. The man had never really experienced any low points in life, but he had never felt _successful_ either. The only real high point in his life was discovering that he was the person deemed closest to beating Sandman - but he knew that even that wouldn't last long. Sooner or later someone was going to come along to push Sandman from his place and become a new, better, stronger champion - and then the white-haired man's own achievements would become vastly meaningless.

He didn't know how he would deal with all that if such a thing ever happened. That was the problem.

Super Macho Man knew that he was going to take it badly. Perhaps badly enough to damage his confidence and image permanently. He was not the most patient and persistant of all men, and everyone around him knew that all too well. Only he knew, however, that he had little to zero previous experience in failure to fall back on. Assuming that the others would expect him to bounce back immediately after a defeat, he was going to have some problems dealing with his damaged ego.

So he relied on others. He took note of the other boxers' failures and how they dealt with it. It was going to help him someday, he just knew it - and thus he could never stop collecting those tales. The others could think of him however they liked, in his opinion; it didn't matter if they thought him prying and far too nosy for his own good, or if they respected him for taking everything into consideration. As long as he could prepare himself for his eventual defeat by the only way he could - learning from those stories - anything was fine with him.

He had been thinking about that for a very long time. Whilst he sipped his coffee, Super Macho Man decided that he needed something more cheerful to keep his mind off things. Thinking of his inevitable defeat was depressing him - and while the more reasonable side of his mind told him that he should still face up to the facts, his image as Super Macho Man demanded that he stop thinking of such things. He just shouldn't think of anyone's past stories, his eventual defeat, or anything related to such. It was purely a godsend that Bear Hugger happened to be passing by, distracting himself from his own inner conflict.

"Bear Hugger!" he called out, waving his hand. "dude, fancy seeing you here! Remember that question I was going to ask you?"

"Fer God's sake," the Canadian groaned. "ain't yeh been askin' me enough questions?"

Super Macho Man inwardly winced, regretting his choice of conversation - the 'question' quite unfortunately involved the Canadian's past. Trust himself to be so forgetful! But now that he'd started, he was going to have to go along with it - and besides, when he had asked the jolly lumberjack about his past a few weeks back, Bear Hugger had told him what had seemed like a reasonably happy life story. Surely what he was about to ask wouldn't give a tragic answer, would it?

"Yeh know, I already told yeh pretty much ev'rything about me. Anythin' else ain't none of yer business."

"Just one more," Super Macho Man implored. "you've told me everything _except_ what brought you down to the States. I mean, there's a great boxing association there. You could have dominated everybody if you had chosen that place."

"Nah," Bear Hugger said off-handedly. "I was jess stayin' in good ol' Canada and bein' merry. Thought I'd stay there forever. But my igloo melted and I hadda come down 'ere, yeh get me?"

"Ah."

An awkward silence.

"I... I'm sorry about that, man. I... really am."

Bear Hugger stared at the white-haired man oddly as the latter stood up. "... Yeh feelin' alright? Super Macho Man never says sorry!"

"Didn't think it'd be a touchy subject, dude. That's just bogus," the younger man mumbled. His assumption had completely backfired on himself; he stood up, deciding that he was better off going home. "I guess... I'll leave you be... sorry for bothering you." he turned to leave when the lumberjack grabbed his arm; he looked back, startled.

"Man, I was jess _jokin_'," Bear Hugger said in an urgent tone - he actually looked concerned. "I came down 'ere simply 'cause I'd heard all abou' yeh guys. That's all. Mine story 'ere ain't a sad one. I go back home ev'ry other weekend - an' I tell yeh, that ain't no igloo."

Super Macho Man huffed slightly. "Dude, then why didn't you just say so? It's not like it'd kill you if you told me the truth. I'm fed up enough as it is."

The Canadian looked at him, a worried look in his eyes. He still held on to the other's arm, stopping him from going anywhere. "What's botherin' yeh? I was jokin' around wit' yeh 'cause yeh've been askin' those kind of questions like mad. I've seen yeh goin' after Kaiser and askin' him stuff. He'd have punched yer lights out if yeh hadn't stopped."

"Von Kaiser, punch _my _lights out?" the white-haired man responded indignantly. "I'd like to see him try."

"Watch it, Macho," Bear Hugger said as gently as possible. He knew that the other was wound up for some reason, and he couldn't afford to have the younger man causing chaos in a public place like this. "I'll have yeh know that Kaiser's tougher than steel when it comes to personal matters. Yeh _don' _want 'im on yer bad side."

Super Macho Man shook his arm free and glared at the older man. "Bogus! Whose side are you on, _anyway_?"

"I'm on _yer_ side," The Canadian said patiently. "I don' want yeh gettin' on _anyone's_ bad side, to be honest with yeh. Yeh've been acting like one of them journalists lately. Now I'm sure yeh have yer reasons for collectin' everyone's past lives. I jess want yeh to know that those stories ain't that important. It's yer _own_ life yeh should be worryin' about, don' yeh agree?" when Super Macho Man rolled his eyes, the older man gave him a searching gaze. "don' yeh go 'round thinkin' that yer life ain't important compared to other people's, Macho. It don' matter if they've done better things than yeh in their lives - I dunno, an' forgive me fer sayin' this, but you ain't exactly a saint - but yeh gotta think abou' _now_, not the past."

"... I gotta go. See you around," and with that, Super Macho Man walked away without even waiting for a reply. He had to get away from the older man; dealing with people right now wasn't in his interests. He wanted to be alone with his contemplations.

Bear Hugger didn't stop him - he knew that he was in no position to do so - but he still hollered after the white-haired man: "If yeh need to talk about stuff, Macho, I'm 'ere, 'kay?"

Super Macho Man didn't reply, but turned around and gave him a brief thumbs-up before continuing on his way.

He had much to ponder about.


	8. 08: Dans Le Jardin

**Author's Note:** I've been getting the impression - mostly from the reviews - that the Von Kaiser I write is much too easygoing and gentle. So here's my attempt at writing a nasty!Kaiser. But I have never thought that he has particularly cruel intentions regarding others, even after his little 'accident' with those children - he just can't stand kids. Von Kaiser would probably remove himself from a circle of children than attempt to take on all of them. In his Contender cutscene, he's beaten up by kids but he's certainly not hitting them back or even attempting to punish them. He's not willing to hurt children (intentionally or unintentionally); he just wants to get away to a safe place, but he'd more than likely do something upsetting in the process. So he'd probably end up hurting a kid and feel terribly guilty because of it later. x.x Unlike Aran Ryan. Aran is aggressive, much like Von Kaiser, but the former probably wants to fight everybody in sight when he's displeased and 'guilt' isn't too likely to be part of his dictionary.

This incarnation of Von Kaiser is... kind of defensive. And a tad self-centered with just a hint of insecurity. It's strange - it feels as if I'm slowly getting closer to the real personality of Von Kaiser but unable to hit it off perfectly. It like between two points. The German's personality is in between 'logical/kind' and 'downright unreasonable', but I can't get to that exact center. It's either too gentle or too mean.

There is very little slash mentioned but it's there. Nothing squicky though. Only one or two paragraphs mention it. It's not meant to be the focus at all - the main point of the story is Von Kaiser and his experience in a French public garden. Why he's there will be explained. And btw, 'Deutsche Liebe' is a real book and it's a true masterpiece. I recommend reading it - the english title is 'A German Love Story', as far as i know.

Chaos Wielder/ I don't think anyone would like having fruits and vegetables thrown at them. I was hit by an overripe apple on the head once during a cafeteria food fight (memories oh god the memories). It broke the apple, spraying juice everywhere, and probably wouldn't have gone without harming my head too had it been a little less riper. x.x

* * *

It was a sunny day out, but Von Kaiser wasn't enjoying it.

The WVBA boxers had come for a brief holiday abroad in Paris, and somehow it turned out that all group events had fallen apart. The referee had fallen sick - and he was the only one who could somewhat control those boxers. Aran Ryan was locked up in the hotel due to his blatant offensiveness, but apart from that, everyone was doing what they did back home. Super Macho Man and Don Flamenco were taking two-day trips to the beach and attracting French women. Disco Kid was hanging around nightclubs. King Hippo, Bear Hugger and Piston Hondo were all doing their best to sample the cuisine of France, while Soda Popinski was out drinking. Mr Sandman and Bald Bull had no time for such things, and simply visited the local gyms to work out, being far too concerned with their physique and boxing techniques. Plus, they were both quite sick of the paparazzi, and hid away in places where they could train to their hearts' content.

That left Von Kaiser and Glass Joe. They used the opportunity to treat the holiday as a kind of a romantic get-away; they were the two somewhat-more-mature boxers in the association, they were a couple, and they could find much better uses with their time. The Frenchman led the older man to the most elegant, loveliest places in Paris, and Von Kaiser was lost in the beauty of it all - he liked hearing his lover talk quietly about the attractions of Paris, and he loved to sit with the younger man and watch the world pass by lazily. Whilst sitting next to each other, they often fell asleep in a secluded place, the weather having been warm and pleasantly calm for the last few days. They made their way back to the hotel only when the sun set and it was too dark; and yet the night before, Glass Joe had taken the older man out to see the Avenue of _Champs-__Élysées_ and share a couple of drinks, saying that the true beauty of the place lay in darkness. Von Kaiser had to agree.

However, that day was different. Von Kaiser had been led to the more quiet, less public places before; but today he was sitting alone on a park bench in the public gardens of the Luxembourg Palace. He was less than happy with this arrangement. First, he was alone with only a novel to accompany him - Glass Joe had been called away unexpectedly back to their hotel by Don Flamenco for unknown reasons. Von Kaiser didn't like being separated from his lover for reasons he did not know; he guessed that Don Flamenco (and possibly Super Macho Man) were either lost in translation or were having language problems, but that didn't make it any more excusable. He wanted Glass Joe all to himself for the duration of the holiday. It was probably selfish of him, but he just couldn't help it.

Second, he had been waiting for half an hour. The hotel was only five minutes away by foot from the _Jardin du Luxembourg_, and even that was with a slow pace. What was taking the Frenchman so long? Von Kaiser knew that he shouldn't be worrying so much - nobody knew Paris as well as Glass Joe - but he couldn't help being anxious.

Third, he was surrounded by people. Or more accurately, he was surrounded by _children_. This was what bothered him the most; had he been alone with no one in sight, he would have only been mildly annoyed. But he could hear children all around him, laughing, shouting, screaming - and it was seriously beginning to affect him. He was twitching, his facial tic getting more and more obvious by the minute; so far no one had noticed, but unless he could calm himself, he was going to be marked as crazy. He really didn't want that happening in Paris of all places. He probably wouldn't have minded so much if Glass Joe had been there with him - that would have taken the older man's mind off the fact that there were children everywhere - but the truth was that he was by himself.

It was getting hot. Von Kaiser, although he normally sweated very little, was starting feel the strain; he wiped his brow and sighed, leaning himself further back into the shade. He opened his novel, thinking that he might as well read some of it to distract himself from the children. Maybe if he kept silent and hid himself behind the book, he would be left alone. The novel was rather light, but a German classic in its finest. He had purchased it in a bookshop nearby, and in its original language too - he had been ecstatic about it then, and he was happy that he could read it now.

But he had scarcely gone through two pages when he felt a pair of eyes on him, watching his every move.

Von Kaiser did not put down his novel, but glanced up very slightly to see who was watching him. Was it a woman or man of some kind? If so, he could just ignore them. He seriously doubted that anyone wanted to start a fight in such a public place, nor did he believe that he had been recognized. Von Kaiser was famous for his mustache and suspenders; yet today he was wearing a flat cap that hid his eyes and most of his face from a certain angle. The suspenders were there, but he also wore a long collared shirt to go with it, which was rare for him. No one would recognize him with those clothes on. But what he found was someone a bit different; his gaze travelled slowly over to the trees opposite him, and there he found that a small girl was staring at him.

A girl. A _girl_, out of all the people in the gardens! He hastily dropped his gaze and carried on staring at the novel, although he was no longer concentrating on it. Perhaps, just perhaps, if he pretended to read his book the girl would lose interest and go away. Children never had very long attention spans, based on what he knew. He had never really dealt with young girls before, for he had only ever taught boys; and as he usually kept a wide berth from children, he didn't come across them too often. But from what he had seen before in shopping malls, in the streets and the supermarkets, girls were either horrible whining brats or quiet, withdrawn little things. He didn't really like either kind.

When his eyes flickered back to that place between the trees, he found that the girl was no longer there. Was she gone already? Feeling a little calmer, he placed his book down slightly (but not closing it) and dared to look around - only to find that the very same girl was standing a few paces away from him, staring at him ever so curiously.

Von Kaiser was so surprised at her sudden appearance that he almost flinched; but he just barely managed to control himself. He looked away immediately and glanced down at his book again; but he knew that it was a bit too late to pretend he hadn't noticed her presence. She had seen him, and she knew that he had seen her. There was no way she was going to give up just like that. His assumptions were proved correct when the little girl walked up to him and spoke.

"_Monsieur_," the girl chirped. "_qui __êtes__-vous, Monsieur_?"

He tried to ignore it, but the girl was tugging on his trouser legs (just below his knee). He looked up reluctantly, his eyes showing his annoyance - Von Kaiser hoped and hoped that the girl would take his hint and go away. But nothing of that sort happened; the child simply looked up at him, her baby-blue eyes clear and innocent.

"_Est-ce que vous habitez __pr__è__s __d'ici, Monsieur_?"

Von Kaiser bit his lip slightly. "_Je suis __d__é__solé_," he said in limping French, his pronunciation partly incorrect. "_je ne parle que un peu Français_."

This phrase had been taught to him by Glass Joe himself - and it was a surprisingly handy one. When he was approached by people who asked him something in French, all he had to do was to say that he only spoke very little of the language; once, a particularly sensitive individual had picked up on his thick German accent and had spoken to him in German instead, which had been quite a nice surprise. But most of the time, when he stated that he knew very little French, this usually resulted in the other person repeating their question in English or saying sorry and walking away. Either way was fine with Von Kaiser, and he dropped his gaze back to his novel. Surely the child wouldn't bother him now.

He never guessed that he would be so wrong.

"_Anglais_? You speak English, Monsieur?" the girl suddenly asked in a slightly muddled, but otherwise perfectly understandable English; Von Kaiser looked up, startled despite himself. She tugged lightly at his trouser legs again, grasping at the fabric, but the older man roughly pushed her hand away.

"Please do not touch me."

The man's tone was clipped and harsh, and the girl flinched. She looked at him, confused - what had she done wrong? That look was so unbearably innocent that Von Kaiser felt terribly guilty for no reason at all. After all, the child looked no more than five years old at the very most. All she had wanted was to get his attention-

-what was he _thinking_? He was face-to-face with a _child_! And not just a child - he was facing a little girl who seemingly had no intentions of leaving him be. That wouldn't do. He was going to have to make her go away.

But how? Shouting at her wasn't an option; it was going to attract too much negative attention. And God forbid he should ever be recognized as Von Kaiser in the act of shouting at a child! No, he couldn't let that happen. But he couldn't just ignore her either. Neither of those options were going to get him anywhere.

While he was struggling with this inner conflict, the young child had recovered from her surprise and had sat down next to him. "_Quel age avez-vous?_ How old are you?" she asked, peering close at him. "I'm six."

Von Kaiser kept silent. The girl didn't seem to mind, and only smiled at him, knowing that she was being heard. "You're very quiet."

"Yes," the German replied, and then paused as he could find nothing else to say. He looked at the girl, not knowing what to do, but he also knew that he couldn't shake off her presence. The best he could do now was to let her chatter on, he himself tolerating her in silence; it was much to horrible to think of what would happen if the girl touched him or got much too mischievous for her own good. Not only would he lose control of himself, he didn't know what he'd do. That frightened him - he couldn't hurt this child, no matter how irritating she was. She was not a boy he could scold and send away - she was neither his child nor his pupil. He'd never been in a situation like this before, and it was far too alien to him. In his eyes, she was a threat to his privacy.

But then, the girl didn't _look _threatening. She was very cute and petite, but rather short for a six-year old; her arms and legs were thin and frail, and her skin was pale as milk. Her eyes were a baby-blue colour and she had long, curly reddish-brown hair (similar to his own, but much lighter). This unusual combination of features only served to make her look more pretty. On one wrist was a small silver bracelet, which sparkled in the sunlight. She wore a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, both of them a sky-blue colour. Anyone except for the German boxer would have thought that she was an adorable little thing. She must have been the least threatening thing to _ever_ cross his path, but nevertheless, Von Kaiser didn't _want_ her near him. Simple as that.

"What are you reading?" the girl gazed at the spine of the book, tilting her head to the side as to read it properly. "d... deut-"

"'_Deutsche Liebe'_," Von Kaiser corrected. "it's written in German."

The child's eyes widened in curiosity and delight. "_Vous __ê__tes_ _allemand_? You are German?"

"I am."

"So what does that... _title_...?" she said, trying to recall the English word. "... what does it mean?"

"It's a love story," the German boxer said, dodging the question. "that's all."

The girl giggled. "You love someone, Monsieur?"

Von Kaiser didn't answer. He was feeling extremely uncomfortable with the way this (already-awkward) conversation was going; his love life was none of the girl's business. He was tempted to just stand up and tell her exactly that, but something told him to stay still. There was nothing good that would come out of being horrible to a child. At least, not in the Jardin du Luxembourg.

"Where are your parents?" the German asked, steering the conversation into something that he was more inclined to engage in.

"_Ma maman_?" the girl asked back, and she shrugged her frail shoulders ever so lightly. "_je ne sais pas_. She's very busy. And my papa isn't here."

Von Kaiser sighed heavily and glanced around. No sign of recognition from the other passers-by. It appeared that her mother was nowhere near; at least, he didn't find anyone who bore the slightest resemblance to the girl. There were many people passing by, but no one who looked like the girl's mother. It looked as if he was stuck with her until someone turned up. While he was looking around and thinking this, the child had clambered up on the bench next to him; she grabbed his shirt sleeve, trying to get his attention. Von Kaiser looked down, noticed the child grasping at his sleeve - and tugged his arm away in disgust.

"I _told_ you not to touch me!" his tone was a bit more sharper than before, although it still wasn't loud enough to be a shout. The little girl stared at him, now looking slightly frightened; her hand stayed in that outstretched position. Von Kaiser purposefully looked away and bent his head, staring hard into the pages of his book; he had scared the child quite effectively. Now she wouldn't dare to approach him. This wasn't exactly the best scenario that could have unfolded, of course - but as long as he ignored the girl and let her go away on her own, everything would turn out all right. At least, all right as far as he was concerned.

There was silence for a long while. Von Kaiser carried on staring at the words, occasionally flipping the pages, giving the illusion that he was reading when in fact he wasn't concentrating on the novel at all. A breeze whistled past, ruffling their hair, but neither commented on it.

All the time, the girl stayed next to him, sitting still and keeping quiet. She no longer looked at him or attempted to strike up a conversation. That was fine with the man. But there was one more thing that the German boxer should have done in that moment - and that was relocating himself somewhere else. Had he done that, the child would have gotten the message once and for all, and it would have saved both of them a lot of grief. But alas, the man did no such thing. Von Kaiser was just glancing at his watch and getting anxious at just how _long_ Glass Joe was taking to come back when she piped up again.

"_Oh, le __chien tr__è__s__ mignon_!" she exclaimed, leaning forwards as a couple passed by with a small Papillon dog on a leash; said couple smiled at her, and at Von Kaiser as well. They had obviously taken him to be her father, even though they bore very little resemblance save for the hair colour. But no matter. The whole thing disturbed and confused Von Kaiser; he did not return the smile, but only nodded very quickly, wanting to stop all this as soon as possible. "Monsieur, wasn't that dog cute?"

"I prefer cats," the German answered coldly. While this statement was certainly true, he had in reality only said it to cut off the conversation. Unfortunately, he failed to do so.

"_Mais pourquoi_? _Les chats_, they're horrible. Dogs love you back!" she retorted, obviously taking this remark as an insult. "all cats do are to run away!"

Von Kaiser looked over at all, irritated. "_Mein Gott_! What would _you_ know? Have you ever kept one?"

"_Non_, I don't want to!"

Alright. Enough was enough. He was getting involved in a childish argument that would lead ultimately nowhere - one thing children never did was to give up in an argument. Von Kaiser racked his brains for that phrase Glass Joe had taught him - the latter had told him only to use that phrase when he was being forced into a terribly uncomfortable situation or if he really wanted someone to leave him be.

Well, the situation that the German boxer was in fitted well into both categories.

"You like _cats_. _Quelle horreur, Monsieur_! I-"

"_Laisse-moi tranquille_!" Von Kaiser finally snapped; the girl flinched back, looking shocked. He closed the book shut, making a sharp sound in the process, and glared at the girl while sitting with his arms crossed. The German boxer really wasn't in the mood to deal with this, and he wanted nothing but the child to just _go away_.

But the young girl didn't move. Her lips trembled as she looked down at the pavement, trying not to burst into tears; Von Kaiser hated that look. He had often seen said expression on children's faces when he told off one of his pupils - not only did it make him feel guilty, it also brought up inner frustration and rage along with it. He didn't want that to happen - as annoyed as he felt with the girl, he didn't know her well and didn't feel complied to shout at a girl in a foreign country. So if he couldn't get her to leave in any way, he had to remove himself from the problem - he simply stood up without a word and walked away, making his steps as brisk as possible. The sound of his boots clicking on the pavement exaggerated this rather well. Soon he was out of sight, hiding himself next to the statue of Ludwig von Beethoven; but he was still within earshot of the girl, and he was about to find this fact out in the most unpleasant way possible.

He had turned his back to look at the plaque near the statue when he heard the girl starting to cry; it wasn't in a bad-tempered way either. It started off as a soft, tentative sob - and then the sobbing grew louder as the girl buried her face in her hands and cried. Had she thrown a tantrum right there, Von Kaiser would have felt quite glad for getting away. But she was literally just sitting there, crying her eyes out with heartbreaking sobs, not even attempting to chase him down. He could hear passers-by stopping and asking her questions in urgent French, and eventually her mother arriving to make a fuss of her; although he didn't understand a word of what she was saying, he could somehow sense that the the mother was asking her little girl who had upset her.

Von Kaiser slipped away between the statues, out of sight and out of earshot, knowing that he wouldn't be found easily in the large gardens. But it didn't make him feel any better - in fact, it made him feel even _worse_. He thought of the child's blue eyes, how she had chattered away to him, and the way her lips had trembled; only then did the guilt tear at him mercilessly.

Guilt! The sense that he had done something wrong! He tried to get it off his mind, of course. Von Kaiser paced around the statues, first slowly and then with more speed, trying to justify his actions - but the truth was that he could find nothing that allowed him to feel less guilty. No matter how much he attempted to put the blame on the girl, he simply _couldn't_. He was most definitely in the wrong here - Von Kaiser was aware that had Glass Joe been there, the Frenchman would have been disgusted with him. The German had acted disgracefully back there, and there was no denying it. In the space of ten-or-so-minutes, he had met a child and had forced her into tears. Hardly the most respectable thing to do.

But how was he going to fix things? He stopped and stared forlornly at the bust of Charles Baudelaire, thinking. He was at fault and yet he couldn't even apologize for it now. The girl and her mother had likely left the gardens by now, and he would never see her again. Von Kaiser had left a scar on the girl's innocent little mind - he could have been nicer to her, or at least leave before things got worse. To the girl, he had been a stranger who had been horrible to her for seemingly no reason. How long was that scar going to last?

'She was a _child_,' he thought to himself in one last effort to take the blame off his shoulders. 'and a terribly impertinent one at that. Why, she deserved it all!'

It was of no use. He was convincing no one, let alone himself.

The man slowly made his way back to the bench five minutes later, peering around the corners to see if they were still there. There was no sight of the girl or her mother - while he was glad for this, a part of him also felt terribly empty. Now he couldn't even say that one word to her. _Sorry_.

Von Kaiser buried his face into his hands, his novel lying on his lap, and stayed in that position until Glass Joe came back. The latter immediately voiced his concern, holding the German in an embrace; the older man accepted, feeling just a little bit better.

"I'm sorry for being late, Monsieur. Are you all right?"

Von Kaiser hesitated.

"I'm fine," he then replied, smiling to reassure the younger man. "I'm perfectly fine, Joseph."

But he wasn't.

He truly wasn't.


	9. 09: Solitude

**Author's Note:** This is about the most depressing thing written for Punch-Out! so far, but somehow I liked the way it turned out. It's Glass-Joe centric and features no other boxer. At this rate I'm going to have to change the anthology summary to _'Contains vast amounts of Von Kaiser and Glass Joe'. _x.x I love them. Sue me. Anyway, this oneshot was spawned from a webpage that said that Glass Joe was declared the toughest man in France after winning a Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots match with his cat. Even though it's meant to be a parody, the idea that Joe might have a cat stuck in my head. It also uses the same backstory I used back in chapter seven for Glass Joe, and therefore it's also terribly far from canon and very depressing. Glass Joe is about five years younger in this fic.

This chapter is dedicated to Chaos Wielder who's given me the most con-crit in any fandom. I appreciate it, I really do. Not enough people know how to give proper con-crit nowadays. Being a fellow cat lover and an owner of _un chat adorable_, I wrote this chapter for you. I'm sorry it's depressing. Thank you very much (gives you cookies). One day I'll write something more cheerful for you, I promise. xD

Chaos Wielder/ The main reason I wrote the last chapter was that I just wanted to write a oneshot where Von Kaiser made a kid cry. xD I'm such a horrible person. Von Kaiser's personality is so hard to write because his character is remarkably undeveloped. I mean... he only ever shows a couple of emotional situations and doesn't really have a 'neutral' point to work on. Even his intermissions only hint at his inner trauma and anger. And anger is not something that happens constantly - there needs to be a 'normal' somewhere, but he looks so unemotional when he's not being angry. That makes it quite hard.

* * *

Sunset has come and gone, and the first of the stars light up the sky. The crescent moon also comes into view, its light faint but nevertheless visible; another day has passed, and night is falling.

All the windows light up in a small apartment complex near the outskirts of New York City. All of them but one - for the owner of that particular apartment isn't back home. But it's not as if any of the neighbours notice his absence. Even when the owner himself drags himself from the elevator, they remain unaware and happy with their families. He sighs heavily, pausing for breath, and then slowly walks toward the door of his apartment.

He's holding a large bag and he's clad in a tight black shirt and red trousers; this is an out-of-season look that often gets him odd glances from the passers-by. And to be perfectly honest, the man _does_ look strange. With long red hair that partially hides his right eye, and various bruises on his face, it is terribly hard for people to determine who he actually is and what he does. Not only does he look terribly unsuited to his job, he usually comes out looking _worse_ after a long, painful day. This happens every three weeks or so, and today was one of those times.

Glass Joe is the name they call him. In other people's eyes, he is simply a Parisian boxer with a vastly unknown past who happens to be the eternal understudy of the World Video Boxing Association.

He fishes out a key from his pockets and unlocks the door, pushing it open. The place is dark, but he's not afraid nor does he feel the immediate need to turn the light on. He whistles softly into the darkness and waits for a second or two - and lets a small smile form on his lips as he hears the other occupant of the apartment rushing to meet him. Running out to greet him is his cat - who trots eagerly towards him and mews happily, signaling that he was missed during his absence. She stops in front of him and rolls on her back, making soft chirping sounds. Glass Joe smiles brightly, despite the bruises on his face, and bends down to pick the cat up in his arms.

"_Bonsoir, Musette_," the Frenchman whispers, tickling his cat behind her ears. She purrs and licks his cheek in response, placing two paws on his chest. "_tu t'es sentie seule_?"

Another mew answers this question, and he smiles again. Glass Joe stoops lightly to lock the door behind him, and fumbles for the light switch; when he turns on the light, the room is brightened and allows him to make his way further inside. He turns on every light in the apartment (except for the bathroom) and goes straight into the kitchen, Musette still purring in his arms.

Musette is a Scottish Fold, and is three years and five months old. Her coat is the most beautiful orange, with brown tabby stripes across her back, and her eyes are a glass-green colour. _Musette_ is a strange name for a cat, some may say; but for Glass Joe, an avid lover of music, it makes _perfect_ sense. The old, but still perfectly playable piano in the main living space of his apartment only serves to deepen his love for music. This trait has certainly rubbed off on his cat; Musette often climbs up and sits next to him when he's playing something on the piano. She does not bother him in those moments - rather, she leans towards him and listens to his playing. The Frenchman knows that Musette is artistic at the very least, and frequently arranges different repertoires of classical music for him to play - and lets her to listen at weekends. Currently, her favourite piece appears to be _'Nocturne No. 20 (op. posth)' _by Frederick Chopin. He knows by the way she swishes her tail excitedly whenever he plays said piece.

Glass Joe speaks very little English when at home, but tonight is an exception. He chats to Musette in a mixture of French and English as he fixes some food for her, and she stays by his feet, tail swishing in anticipation. Being a Frenchman, and having immense respect for authentic homemade French cuisine, he doesn't believe in tinned cat food. In his opinion, cats are better off being fed freshly-made things, albeit made very differently from human food. Perhaps it is because of those reasons, but Musette has never had to eat tinned food in her life, and she is extremely sleek and healthy. She has never suffered a disease, and her coat is always shining; all this is the result of extensive grooming, handmade food, and (most importantly) Glass Joe's care. All the love he's capable of (which isn't a very large amount, surprisingly) goes to Musette alone. The Frenchman has no parents or siblings - or more accurately, he doesn't know who they are or even if he has any. He simply has no one else to love. In fact, it's a miracle he can love at _all_, considering the circumstances of his childhood.

"_Est-ce que tu aimes_?" he asks as he sits down on the floor to watch Musette eat; he knows that she can't reply, but he rather fancies that he sees her nod happily. Chuckling, he leans against the wall and watches her lick the edges of her food bowl daintily. She really is a very hungry cat at times - sometimes she mews plaintively at him when he's at home, trying to goad him into giving her some more food. Luckily, this is easier said than done, for making food for her takes time; it's not a matter of just shaking out a few cat treats from a bag. So often this attempt to coax him fails, and she settles down haughtily by his side. Yet the Frenchman knows that if he had raised her on commercial cat food, she would be morbidly obese by this point - not only does she mew in a very cute manner, making it hard to resist her, a non-homemade diet would have made it easier for him to give her food whenever she asks.

Musette, having finally licked the bowl clean, moves away and begins to groom herself. Glass Joe laughs and picks up the food bowl - it's licked clean to the point where he thinks briefly that it doesn't need washing. He puts it in the sink and starts making his own dinner, putting on an apron and cutting up fresh vegetables. They're together in peaceful harmony at this very moment - his cat grooms herself a safe distance away, keeping an eye on him, and he's cooking a meal for himself. Nothing is said between the two, but this blissful silence is welcomed by both.

* * *

As the stew begins to bubble, Glass Joe opens the lid and stirs it around slightly. Already the smell of beef is overwhelming - he can tell that his evening meal that day is going to turn out fine. Tightening his apron strings slightly, he reaches up to the top cupboard to fetch himself a bowl and a large dish. He sets them down on the counter and then slices some baguette to go along with his food, whistling to himself all the while.

Glass Joe soon sits down to a light meal of some _pot-au-feu_; he eats remarkably little compared to the amount that he works out, which explains why he's been underweight for a few years now. He also tends to chew quite slowly, which leads him to eating less. He picks up his spoon and proceeds to savour the taste of the stew - a rich taste of beef, potatoes and other vegetables assault his tongue, and he nods his head in satisfaction. Glass Joe is very proud of his cooking, and he hasn't let himself down today. Musette finishes her grooming and sits by his feet, looking up at him with her wide, innocent eyes, her tail waving from side to side - she's pleading for a taste of the stew, knowing that there's beef in it. Glass Joe knows far better, though - he glances down at her, and for a moment his eyes gleam with mischief.

"_C'est le mien_!" he says teasingly; just to make fun of her even more further, he sticks out his tongue slightly after saying this. Musette gives him a dirty look in response, making him laugh. He reaches down to fondle her beneath the chin ever so softly, and resumes eating, dipping the slices of bread into the stew and eating slowly. Although he was punched many times on his fragile jaw that day, he's hungry enough to ignore the pain. And stew doesn't require that much chewing, after all. The rest of the meal passes by in silence; Musette wanders around for a while, doing what she normally does at that time (such as chewing on cat grass) before settling down again beneath the Frenchman's feet. She curls up and occasionally attempts to bat at his slippers with a paw. When Glass Joe is done, he immediately puts away the dishes and sits down back for a simple dessert (a small slice of Brie with a _caf__é__ au lait_) which he soon finishes off. That will keep him going until morning.

Musette has noticed how unusually silent he has been during the meal. She looks at him with curiosity, trying to work out what's wrong - he seems to be lonesome that night despite the way he's acting. He's always gentle towards her, but tonight he has been just a little bit distant. Normally he would have played with her for a long time, bringing out her favourite cat toys - a few times he even stopped in the middle of a meal in order to amuse her. But tonight there's none of that. There's just him, his daily routine, and Musette has been pushed to the side ever so slightly. She notices that all too well.

When he finishes washing the dishes, he goes to the bathroom for a shower and a change of clothes; Musette stays next to the bathroom door, pacing around occasionally, waiting for him to come out. Sometimes she succeeds in sneaking into the bathroom ahead of him, curling up in the sink in an attempt to get closer to her owner. When such things happen, he has to pick her up, put her down outside and close the door before she comes back in. Nothing like that happens tonight, though, which makes it easier for him. The Frenchman soon comes out of the bathroom, wearing a bathrobe and thin pyjamas underneath. His long hair is wet and slicked back; Musette follows him as he goes to put the towel he used and the clothing he changed out of into the laundry basket. She takes a detour halfway through, deciding that he no longer needs constant watching.

She returns to her place in the living room, lounging around lazily, occasionally pawing at a cat toy on the floor. All this is routine for the two. He empties the laundry basket, sets the washing machine going, and goes to rejoin his cat by the sofa.

* * *

He and Musette get along so well, he thinks to himself as he lies down on the sofa; he gestures towards his cat, whistling softly, and she comes running straight away. She clambers up the sofa to lie against him, her soft warm body pressed against his. His bathrobe is made of soft wool, and she latches eagerly into it with her claws, loving the sensation of the fabric beneath her paws. Chuckling, Glass Joe gently frees his robe from her grasp and instead holds her still. It seems very unusual for a cat to be this sweet and gentle - but then Musette is special. Her and Glass Joe have shared the same kind of past, and he thinks that this subconsciously serves to link them together.

Musette was found by him three years and five months ago, in a chilly autumn evening. She was a mere newborn then, her eyes not even opened properly, covered with a thin cloth and shivering in a box in the streets; he did everything he could to keep her alive when he found her. She was a runt of the litter, the Frenchman had guessed back then, judging by her small size compared to other kittens her age - and even now he still thinks that's the precise reason why she was abandoned in the first place. Nevertheless, she has grown up into a fine, healthy cat. She considers him a mother figure, Glass Joe knows this much - and that's why she doesn't like being parted from him and follows him so faithfully. The Frenchman can draw some parallels between her past and his - he himself was found inside a basket in front of an orphanage when he was merely two days old. There was nothing to inform anyone of his identity - just a thick blanket wrapped around him for warmth, and a piece of paper pinned to said blanket which was scrawled with his first name and date of birth. It was also a snowy winter day. Had he not been found in time, he would have froze to death. Sometimes, just _sometimes_, he wishes that had happened instead.

Glass Joe sighs and closes his eyes tiredly. Thinking of his past honestly isn't his favourite hobby. He can do other things - he can play the piano for a little while before he goes to bed. He can sort his boxing equipment and get ready for tomorrow. He can read a book or watch a film. Or he can even fall asleep on the sofa with Musette curled up beside him. He can do pretty much anything, but for some reason, he can't stop thinking about himself and his cat.

The Frenchman looks at the calender and then finally figures out why this is so. It's his birthday. His subconscious knew it far earlier than his brain did.

So what now? It's still only ten to eight. Night has fallen early outside (for it's winter) but he knows that the many shops are still open. He could probably call up a couple of his associates and go out to have a drink, but then almost immediately decides against the idea. He hasn't celebrated his birthday with others in years, and there's no reason why he should start now. They don't even know that his birthday is today. Glass Joe looks out at the shops below, and thinks that maybe he could buy himself a small cake - just as he did in the past few years. But he soon lies back down. There's only about four hours of his birthday left, so there really isn't any point now. Despite not really wanting to, he returns to contemplating his and Musette's past life; simply because he can't stop the chain of memories and there is nothing else he can do.

Musette is lucky, he muses to himself as he strokes his cat behind her delicately folded ears. She doesn't know that she's been abandoned. Even if she _did _remember, she would know that it was a pair of human hands that tore her away from her mother's side and shoved her into that box; it would be the human's fault entirely, not her mother's. She wouldn't blame the cat who gave birth to her. He could tell her everything about the day he first found her, but she still wouldn't know, because she won't understand him. Musette would carry on looking at him, a human, with loving eyes and greet him with soft purrs. That's far more than the Frenchman managed in his childhood.

He started realizing that something was wrong when he found that he was the only one without any known parents amongst his fellow peers (the other orphans had all known at least one of their parents). And after being told by some malicious others that he was essentially 'thrown away' by his mother and father, he simply stopped feeling love. Prior to that realization, Glass Joe was capable of caring for some of the younger orphans and the pets around the orphanage, but then he simply didn't care nor love any more. He understood that he had been abandoned all too perfectly when he was little, and he understands it all too well now. It took years for him to gain some affection for others - by that time he was a young man of twenty-three, and had entered the WVBA - but he's thirty-three years old (as of today) and he still doesn't feel secure enough to trust anyone. Chances are he never will be. What little love he has regained goes to Musette, and that's about all. And unlike his cat, he knows _perfectly_ who's to blame.

And that knowledge - that his parents never loved him - keeps on destroying him inside whenever he builds up some confidence within himself.

Of course, there's Musette. To her, he's _everything_. Musette is terribly shy around other cats, as proved when he took her out once and they encountered a white tomcat on the way; she nearly slipped from his grasp and ran away in fear. Glass Joe is everything to her, his love is all she wants and needs - he is her world, and she's perfectly content with that. In her point of view, she's probably a cat being looked after by some kind of celestial being. But the Frenchman can't live on a cat's love alone. He is a human after all, and humans are extremely social creatures who are very open about relationships and care. If he can't fit into that, he might as well not be alive as a human being at all.

Glass Joe's problem is that he can't trust others enough to love them, and therefore others can't give him the affection he deserves to have. The fact that there is not one person in the world who loves him as a human being and a man is too much for him to bear. Musette had someone to care for her after her abandonment, and grew into a gentle, sweet little cat. Glass Joe had no one to take care of him after he was abandoned - he was simply one of far too many orphans, and he was never adopted. No such person has appeared so far in his life - and therefore he simply isn't capable of feeling such emotions for other people.

Trying to get his mind off the thought, he holds his cat tighter against his chest, giving her a soft kiss on the nose. She purrs happily, half dozing off in the warmth of the man's embrace - feeling warm, full and deliciously content, she begins to knead his chest softly, alternating with both paws and nuzzling into him all the while. This act of simple love is rare, but Glass Joe wants it to go on forever when it does happen.

And then, just like that, he realizes just how lonely he is.

Whenever he's in the changing rooms, quietly going about his normal routine, he notices that he's the only one without a person to talk to. Everyone else goes around talking with others, having fun, sometimes fighting with each other - their presence is known to others. Not Glass Joe. That doesn't happen with him. Some people try to approach him - Von Kaiser and Don Flamenco are the only two he can somewhat talk to - but when it comes to a certain extent, the Frenchman stops opening up. And when neither of those two are near him, Glass Joe is left by himself.

Not to mention his constant losses and the jeers he has to receive in return. There's nothing to assure the man that someone cares for him. There's no sportsmanship involved when it comes to Glass Joe - they just beat the man within an inch of his life and move on. Nobody nurses his bruises and cuts - he has to do everything himself. And then the cycle begins again. Sometimes he wonders why he's not just leaving those bruises and cuts alone; they would surely take longer to heal. Perhaps they won't heal at all, leading the judges to announce that the Frenchman is no longer fit for boxing. And then he wouldn't have to put up with the abuse and he'll be able to find a less violent job. But he can't stop. Fighting, getting bruised and getting hurt is just about the only link to humanity and his own existence that he has left. While he's in the ring, while the adrenaline is rushing through his veins and the crowd's cheers pound upon him, he knows that he's made it far. He knows that he's _alive_.

But then he goes home and Musette is all he has. She is the only thing he has ever been sure of in his entire life, and she's the only creature who has ever loved him unconditionally.

And there's no one to wish him happy birthday. He thinks about the parents that he will never know - surely _they_ of all people know that it's his birthday today. Do they think about him too every now and then? Or did they just get rid of him and completely forget about the fact that he existed? Did his parents ever try to find him? Do they regret having abandoned him, or do they congratulate themselves over it? And the most dreadful thought of all - are they, the only link to his heritage, even _alive_ in this world? He's not sure if he _really_ wants to know.

Glass Joe smiles sadly as Musette curls up next to him, her beautiful head next to his; her green eyes look deeply into his own, and the Frenchman can feel her tail curling around his hand. She looks at him and mews ever so softly, inquiring what is wrong for the second time, giving him a gentle lick on the hand as he strokes her beneath her chin.

"_Au moins tu m'aimes, Musette_," Glass Joe whispers - and then suddenly he buries his face onto her soft, silky coat, crying his heart out as the meaning of what he said dawns on him.

_Au moins tu m'aimes._

_At least you love me._


	10. 10: Under the Influence

**Author's Note:** Oh man, I feel that I'm entering dangerous territory with this fic. It concerns Aran Ryan - and it ain't a pretty fic, either. Aran uses some filthy language and quite a number of offensive slurs (mostly referring to Germans) in this fic, so please beware. None of those slurs reflect my beliefs, and they're only there to develop character speech. I apologize for any offense caused, and will remove the slurs if requested.

So... this is actually a kind-of sequel to 'Misunderstanding'. It develops the Aran-Joe relationship in more detail, and it has some slash in it, but there's no denying that it's still one-sided. 'Misunderstanding' isn't the best example of the Irishman's personality, though, so I've tried my best to make Aran crazy in many ways, including a berserk button somewhere in the fic. Also, this chapter introduces my version of Soda Popinski for the first time. I have no idea what a Russian accent sounds like, and nor do I wish to focus a lot on it. He just needs to develop a slightly more different way of speaking from the others. I'm getting there. Soda strikes me as a nice guy really, despite his huge exterior. You look at the first picture on his Title Defense introduction movie and tell me that the 'buh? O.o' face he has isn't adorable. xD He's drinking buddies with Aran, but I can usually see him getting the worst of the deal in that arrangement, knowing how Aran Ryan is such a bastard. This chapter, with the inclusion of the non-fluffy characters, is probably closer to the way those boxers would actually interact with each other in real life than anything I've ever written.

It's my first time writing guys getting drunk as hell and speaking/doing irrational guy things. It's also dedicated to Yaoi-Huntress-Earth, who gave me the initial inspiration for the fic and has also been the other constant reviewer of this fic (on dA). God bless you, my lady. Feel free to offer con-crit and improvements on this piece; the more crit given, the faster I'll be able to write stuff well for the future enjoyment of everyone.

In Soviet Russia, drink punches YOU! (/lamejoke)

* * *

'Drink. Tonight, that bar near WVBA. Will be around at 8pm. -Aran'

Soda Popinski sighed as he glanced at the text message Aran Ryan had sent him. It was half past seven in the evening; normally at that time he'd be drinking more soda and pulling weights. But whenever surprise invitations like those turned up, he could do nothing but wait for the Irishman. They usually only went out once every two weeks on a Saturday night, and the younger man normally kept to this schedule very well, but Soda Popinski knew that it had only been three days since they had last visited that bar. A night out with Aran could be either moderately civilized or a dreadful nightmare, depending on how the Russian played along with his (sometimes-unreasonable) demands and drunken rants. And if Soda Popinski ignored his messages, Aran gave him hell over it for days. It really wasn't fair, though, giving into the random needs of someone ten years younger (and about a hundred times more immature) than he was. He flicked idly through the options on his mobile phone, finding nothing worth exploring in detail.

This was just great.

Apart from the unexpected invitation, he was feeling rather anxious about what Aran had said. It wasn't like him to be so... _brusque_. Aran's way of talking showed even when typing text messages; his messages were infrequent but often very long and riddled with curses. In fact, sometimes they were long and vague to the point where they crossed the borders of being a tangent instead of asking for a simple night out. When those kinds of messages came, Soda Popinski could never actually figure out what they were alluding to until Aran called him out of impatience (often hours overdue from the planned time), screaming down the line and demanding to know why he hadn't turned up. But tonight there was something different about the way the Irishman had versed his demands. It didn't look as if he wanted a guys' night out for pure fun - rather, it looked more like Aran wanted to talk to him about something. That made the Russian feel uneasy. He was sure that there was nothing good that would come out of talking to Aran about this matter, whatever it was. Soda Popinski was the only real friend that the Irishman had, and it was true that he only ever shared the most in-depth conversations with the older man, but tonight the Russian simply couldn't fathom what was going on. He would have preferred a simple, thoughtless night out.

But there was no more time for his contemplations. He felt a tug on his sleeve; looking down, he saw that Aran Ryan was beside him, the look on his face unusually set and firm. Without saying anything, Soda Popinski led the younger man inside and sat him down in a table close to the bar as possible - they didn't like being so far away that the bartender couldn't directly take orders, but they didn't really like sitting on bar chairs either. After ordering himself two cans of Red Bull and a tall glass of Guinness, the Russian returned to the table with the drinks and sat down.

"Why'd you call me out?" the Russian asked as Aran picked up his first glass of Guinness. The latter gulped down a quarter of the contents and slammed the glass onto the table; even though it was what Aran usually did, that move had an unusual force to it that night. It was certainly unnerving to Soda Popinski, who flinched back just slightly.

"Soda," Aran said - no, almost _snarled_ - as he looked at the older man. "how are you meant to act around someone you really like?"

This question was so unfitting to the tone of voice used that Soda Popinski couldn't quite comprehend what he meant at first. He briefly considered leaving the bar and fleeing from the scene; Aran was obviously disturbed and frustrated, even moreso than usual, and he knew all too well that he couldn't deal with the Irishman in such a state. But friendship won over logic eventually, and he forced himself to think about an answer.

"Depends on what that person likes."

The Irishman groaned. "Come off it! That doesn't help me any. If I like someone, can I get away with slapping them around a little, or am I not allowed to make any contact with them whatsoever? At least, not before they consent to touching? And do I need to - _buy_ them stuff? Like - flowers and chocolate and all that crud?"

"I don't understand," Soda Popinski replied, rubbing his forehead - he was starting to feel a migraine form. "what are you talking about? Do you have someone you like?"

Aran rolled his eyes sarcastically. "Duh! Isn't that obvious?"

The older man let out a soft 'hmm' at this, racking his brains for people who the Irishman could possibly fancy. Aran Ryan was famous for hating every men and women in sight, so this was a rather new thing to ponder about; anyone that Aran thought he had a chance with probably wouldn't be anyone the older man knew, but he couldn't help thinking. "Do I know that person?"

"Of course you do," that caught him off guard. "there is no-one in the Association who doesn't know. Come on, can't you guess? Vanila cologne and coffee lover. That should be enough clues."

The Russian frowned in confusion. "I honestly don't know, Aran. Just tell me."

"Bloody hell, I'm talking about that stupid Frenchie!" Aran finally blurted out, half of his drink spilling out as his glass banged on the table; he looked down at the spilt drink and let out a few curses before resuming his talk. "Glass Joe! I like him, but does he notice? Hell, does he even _care_? I try to talk to him and all he does is to run away! What is he, some kind of _schoolgirl_?"

Soda Popinski raised the can of Red Bull to his lips, sipping in silence; he was stunned that the Irishman was just confessing his feelings about another man like it was nothing. It wasn't the fact that Aran was seemingly attracted to men that shocked the Russian (he was perfectly fine with that) - it was the revelation that it was _Aran Ryan_, of all people, who was making a pass at Glass Joe. It was madness. Everybody liked Glass Joe, thus it was a subconsciously-established rule that nobody should be allowed to hurt him outside of the ring. Not even Sandman was an exception to this. Aran, of course, was either unaware or ignorant of this rule - but no matter what the Irishman felt, Soda Popinski knew that he couldn't just advise his friend to 'go for it'. Knowing Aran, his advances would likely be extremely aggressive and harsh; such an act would provoke massive outrage from the others. Soda Popinski also quite liked the Frenchman, and he wasn't willing to see him hurt.

"And that's not all," the younger man continued. "something happened between him and me yesterday, Soda, and it was bad. Really bad. I think I might have ruined my chances with Frenchie for ever. Hell, I would know - I tried to talk to him this morning, just apologize and stuff - _Jay-sus_, this stupid crush makes me do completely irrational things, wouldn't you agree? Anyways, he just walked past me without a word and ignored me for the whole day. I was feeling so bummed out, that's why I asked you out for a drink. But now I think about it, it makes no difference," he chuckled darkly, swirling the liquid in his glass and staring at it intensely. "Glass Joe here doesn't give a shite about me, Soda. He won't care if I dropped down dead. And neither will the bastard who's always around him."

Soda Popinski thought about the last statement for a moment. "You have a rival, Aran?"

"Rival, my arse. More like a goddamn Nazi."

This was the second revelation that evening that thoroughly shocked the older man. "... Mother of Gods! You mean... _Von Kaiser'_s around Glass Joe?"

"Kaiser is right. Fecking kraut," Aran swore as he downed the last of his drink. He motioned for the bartender (who had been watching) to get him another glass, and continued with his rant. "that old geezer's always hanging around Joe, you get that? But you know what's worse? Frenchie _loves_ having Kaiser around. I've seen them in the changing rooms and outside the WVBA, Soda, and they're just like this sickly pair of lovebirds. It makes me want to hurl, just thinking about that bastard with his hands all over Joe - I bet Kaiser even tries out those screwed-up German fetishes on him. I dunno, maybe he likes being in his old military uniform while they-"

"Alright, stop there," Soda Popinski interrupted, feeling slightly sick at the very thought - but he was also offended that Aran would talk about Von Kaiser in such a manner. From what the Russian knew, the German was very respectable and polite when not actively boxing. Much like Glass Joe, there was a kind of underlying rule that the oldest boxer in the Association be respected in some way, and Von Kaiser was this very boxer. Soda Popinski had talked before with the older man, and hadn't found him all that distasteful; he was quite cultured and eloquent, in fact. And there was also the magnificently-trimmed handlebar mustache that the German boxer sported (which was an object of absolute awe for the Russian). But again, Aran was an exception to that rule of respect, for he knew next to nothing about the word. "don't call him those names, Aran. He's the furthest thing from a Nazi I've seen. And none of that is really relevant to what happened between you and Joe-"

The look on the Irishman's face turned muderous. He bolted upright from his chair, swiping his arm across the table and knocking his empty glass off; the glass shattered into pieces as it hit the floor, making a loud noise and leading the entire bar to fall silent. Even the bartender looked over at his regular customer in the middle of filling his new order, his mouth wide open in shock. The Russian stared at him - he was afraid, although he didn't want to admit it. Aran was off the wall at most times, but he was never like this. The Aran Ryan he knew never broke glasses nor damaged bar property.

"Whose fecking side are _you_ on?" Aran yelled, obviously not caring that there were people staring at them. "I ask you a perfectly normal question, you get half the story, and already you're judging me? You think I give a crud about whether he's a - tell you what, I'm regretting I even bothered you in the first place."

With that, Aran grabbed his jacket and turned towards the door, ready to leave - but the older man reached out and caught his arm, forcefully steering him back.

"Sit down," he said quietly. Soda Popinski was only ever soft-spoken like that when he was being serious; ignoring him at that point usually resulted in things getting ugly. Aran bit his lip lightly, running over all the possibilities over in his head - but then threw his jacket over the chair again, sitting back down very reluctantly. "Aran, I'm not judging you. I want to listen to what happened between you and Glass Joe. Any kind of judgement will only be made after that."

* * *

After a few more minutes, the pieces of glass had been swept away and the Irishman had calmed down enough to talk in a more civilized manner. He was quietly sipping his second drink; seeing this, Soda Popinski told him to go ahead with his story and omit no details whatsoever. After a brief nod, Aran started his tale.

"Yesterday, I was sitting in the changing rooms and thinking about stuff when Glass Joe came in. I didn't want to hurt him or anything, Soda... all I wanted was to talk. He was just coming out of the shower and changing into normal clothes, you know, to go home and stuff. And I just got this urge to compliment him about his hair. His _hair_, out of everything possible! Is that dumb or what?"

Soda Popinski said nothing, but leaned forwards, indicating his interest.

"So begins my pathetic attempt to talk to him. You know what I'm like, Soda. I say a few things wrong, and then he ignores me. After all the attempts I made, he just pushes past me and starts walking away. What guy wouldn't be frustrated after that? Jaysus, was I _pissed_. And then - I swear to God I didn't mean to hurt him - but-"

"What did you do?"

Aran Ryan paused, staring into his second Guinness intently and trying to figure out how to voice what had happened.

"I... grabbed him by the hair and tugged him back. And I pulled harder than I meant to. He was screaming and everything."

"You did _what_?" the Russian blurted out in shock, making several people around him glance around. He settled back down uneasily, staring at Aran with a look of horror on his face. "_Gospodi_! Why - why did you do that? You could have just... I don't know, _called_ him!"

"You think I didn't consider that?" the younger man shot back, clearly irritated that he should be speaking of the matter at all. "he was ignoring me and walking away, what _else_ could I have done? I needed to get his attention! But even so I could have at least _apologized_ - if only Kaiser didn't step in and screw everything up. He saw me and Joe, and he saw me pulling his hair... or he might have heard the screams, I don't know exactly what... but what happens is that he lands an uppercut on my chin and takes Frenchie outdoors. Away from me. And it didn't stop there either - I had to watch that old man stroking Joe's hair and being all sweet as pie around him. I would have sworn the whole thing was just to rub salt in my wounds, Soda, but I could see that Joe _liked_ it. He was all over Kaiser this morning. You can probably understand why I felt sick as a pig watching all that."

The older man was speechless for a while as he thought about every aspect of his story.

"Did you pull hard on his hair? As in, _very_ hard?"

"I think so. Hard enough to tear a few strands of hair off his scalp. He might have bled."

Aran's reply was given in an ominous monotone, and he appeared not to really understand what he was saying. The Russian paused for a while, gathering his thoughts. "Did you get a chance to talk with Von Kaiser all throughout yesterday? Or even today?"

"Hell no," the Irishman spat in disgust. "I wouldn't talk to him even if he _begged_ me to. I forgot to tell you that yesterday I was beating up punching bags in my house so that I could forget that he even existed. I don't want to think about him."

It was only then did the older man realize that Aran's hands were rather red and swollen. He knew about the various punching bags in the other's house that he beat up whenever he was feeling down; he must have beaten them for a long time, perhaps even throughout the entire night. Perhaps he had even gone after them with his bare fists. Seeing this made him feel vaguely sad - Aran was showing the faintest signs of self-hate and destruction, and all because he had botched an encounter with someone he liked.

"Why do you even like him that much?" Soda Popinski finally asked, feeling frustrated with Aran. The latter looked at him blankly at the question; he seemed to think that the answer was far too obvious for words.

"He's pretty," the younger man stated matter-of-factly. "you know I sometimes tell my opponents that they're pretty like my sister. But I've only ever meant it _once_, and that was when I was against Joe. Considering that my sister really _is_ pretty as hell - I'll give her that much - that's saying a lot."

The Russian nodded, looking pensive. "Is that all? Because he's good-looking?"

"I wouldn't call him 'good-looking', Soda. He's just that: pretty. Everything about him is exactly right. His hair... his face... you know, there's not a feature out of place. I like that. It's not like he's handsome, but he dresses nice and he knows how to compliment his features. And I don't think it's just the 'pretty' thing that does it for me - Frenchie's got the smarts as well. I wouldn't want to go after an empty-headed guy. Like that goddamn eejit Narcis, for example. If he wants to protect his face so much, he shouldn't be boxing. Call me young and foolish, Soda, but I know who's smart and who's not," the look on Aran's face softened ever so slightly as he took another thoughtful sip. "... and... I really shouldn't be saying this, but what the hell... he's so _gentle_. Kind. Innocent. He's everything that I'm not. Sure, Frenchie's a pretty crap boxer, but that's about the only thing he's not good at. I just really like him."

Soda Popinski let out a sigh. "Alright, let's say that you like him because he's drastically different from yourself. I can see that. But what have you actually done so far to try to gain his affection?"

The younger man shrugged. "That's what gets me mad, Soda. I want to be nice to him but something makes me do horrible things. The only thing I've done that hasn't harmed him is following him to his apartment - I watched him for, I dunno, three hours? His apartment is on the first floor so I figured I'd just hide and watch from the ground. He wasn't doing much, just playing around with his cat. The whole thing was cute as hell. But I don't_ know _what makes me do all those weird things. It's like I love how he's so cute and everything, but at the same time I can't stand it, so I just want to bother the hell out of him. I don't know what's wrong with me."

The older man looked at Aran, a sympathetic look in his eyes. The Irishman was far too young to understand; what he was feeling for Glass Joe might have seemed genuine to him for a time, but Soda Popinski knew that a love triangle with the Frenchman in between could result in nothing but hurt feelings and misunderstandings. Aran's feelings actually bordered more on obsession than love. He had never known exactly what, but there was always something about the Frenchman that made him hard to approach - he was simply far too withdrawn. Aran Ryan was hardly the best person to trust with such a man. If Von Kaiser had feelings for Glass Joe, and those feelings were mutual, there was no room for the Irishman between them. The difference between the German boxer and Aran Ryan was that the latter had a vastly unfriendly reputation, and Soda Popinski knew that he had to let down his friend as gently as possible. There was simply no possibility that the young Irishman could ever hope to have a relationship with Glass Joe.

"Aran, I'm afraid to say this, but your chances with him are minuscule," he said apologetically. "first of all, Joe is far too-"

"Yeah, I get you," Aran interjected. "he's too old for me, and his mind is far too fragile. Being the jackass I am, I'm going to screw things up with him even more. And Kaiser likes him as well, not to mention that he's actually kind of plausible with Joe. So I'm supposed to give good ol' Frenchie up. Is that what you wanted to say?"

"Frankly, yes," the older man said. He wasn't the type to beat around the bush.

The younger man sighed heavily as he sipped at his drink. He hadn't expected his friend to give him any other answer, but it was still painful to have to hear it. And he knew that after the unfortunate incident with the Frenchman a day prior, he had effectively ruined everything between them. Now Glass Joe would do nothing but either fear him or ignore him.

"I can't help thinking I've still got a chance, though," he said, his voice unusually quiet. "I want to apologize to him. I want to make it up to him somehow, there must be a way. The age difference doesn't bother me, either - it's not like I'm a minor. He's friends with _Mac_, come on. That boy's only seventeen, but they're still good friends. There's no reason why I can't be one, either."

Popping open the second can of Red Bull, Soda Popinski downed half of it as the other spoke, a worried look in his eyes. Aran's supposed confidence wouldn't get him anywhere, he just knew it - but how could he convince the Irishman that his pursuits were meaningless? "What about Von Kaiser? Sounds like he's got something going on with Joe already."

"That old man isn't going to make a move on Frenchie anytime soon, Soda. I bet he has his own worries about the whole thing. There's no reason why I can't take Joe out of the equation and hook up with him before _he_ does. And even if he and Kaiser get together-" here he shuddered ever so slightly. "-I still have my chances as long as they don't... _marry_ or anything."

The Russian shook his head in disbelief. Was Aran deluding himself on purpose? If that was indeed the case, he had to put a stop to it. He wasn't going to have either Aran or Glass Joe hurt.

"Listen to me, Aran. Give him up. There are others out there who are fit for your taste. But keep away from Joe - you do one thing wrong to him and the others are going to turn on you, you hear me? Don't get into matters you can't handle. Glass Joe obviously likes Von Kaiser better, and from the way it sounds, he's keeping a wide berth from you. By the time you gain a little of his trust back, he's going to be well-established with Von Kaiser."

Aran Ryan said nothing.

"You've only just turned twenty-three, Aran. You're just a kid-"

"Geez, thanks, dad."

"I wish I _was_ your father!" Soda Popinski retorted, now slightly angry. "then maybe you'd take me seriously when it comes to those matters! Do you honestly think Glass Joe will consent to having someone fifteen years his junior go out with him? Do you?"

The younger man looked away, staying silent. Seeing this, the Russian became a little more subdued; he leaned back and gazed at the other, the look in his eyes calmer. "Exactly. It's not just about what you want. Glass Joe's just not the man for you when it comes to things like love and care, Aran. He needs a lot of it, and I daresay you're a little too inexperienced to know what he wants. You're not exactly the... _cuddly_ type."

"I know," Aran replied in a rather sulky tone, and then said nothing. Knowing that he had been harsh, Soda Popinski softened his voice slightly as he spoke again.

"I realize I've been rather blunt, Aran, and I'm sorry. I just don't want to see you getting yourself into trouble," Soda Popinski finished the second can of Red Bull and pushed that aside. "and there's another reason I prefer you single for now. If you get yourself a significant other, you won't be available for twice-a-month drinking any more. I can't lose my only drinking buddy to some other man or woman. Not even if that person is Glass Joe."

"You've got a point there," Aran admitted as he motioned for the bartender to get him a third drink. This request was granted almost immediately. "I like those nights out, you know? I'm still young. Call me hot-blooded or whatever, but I need my share of drink before I'm all old and busy and can only make once-a-fortnight arrangements. Like you do."

"Are you saying that I'm old?" the Russian said, but he said this in a very light-hearted manner. He raised his can of Red Bull up in the air and clicked it against the other's glass. "_Na zdarov'e_! Cheers to our health and future nights out in the town!"

Aran Ryan laughed for the first time that evening, which was a great relief to the older man - now the younger man was back to his old self. "Sure thing, head. Bros before hos, right?"

"You got it. What do you say we order some chips to go along with our drinks?"

"Sounds good to me."

* * *

"Aran, please stop, oh my God you are so _drunk_-"

Aran Ryan sniggered as Soda Popinski (who wasn't exactly sober himself) put the younger man's arm around his shoulders, trying to support the Irishman's full weight. They were staggering down the street, both having drunk quite an amount of alcohol; the Russian was not too partial to drinking anything apart from soda, but when Aran was chugging down beer next to him, he usually couldn't resist having a shot or two of vodka. But it was indeed true that the older man still had some common sense rattling around somewhere in his brain, unlike the red-haired boxer, and therefore he had the presence of mind to support Aran from falling down on the pavement.

"Yer right abou' dat, me head, it ain't good fer no-one," the younger man chuckled, his thick Irish brogue finally overcoming him - he usually spoke clearly and in perfectly enunciated English, but when he was tired or drunk, it was a different story. When this happened during their usual nights out, it would also mark the point when Soda Popinski would decide that they'd had enough, and that night wasn't any different. "Glassy Joe ain't gonna like me. Dat right, eh?"

"Let's get you home. Hold on to me, right?"

But the Irishman had already broken free. Laughing hysterically, he barely grasped his footing and began to walk unsteadily along the pavement.

"I'm buyin' ye a gift, head," Aran slurred, his accent lilting in a strange manner as he stumbled into a nearby shop. "fer bein' a pal. Don' refuse, 'kay? Ye'll break me lil' heart!"

The shopkeeper had been rearranging his stock, ready to close up and go home, when he saw two obviously drunken men staggering inside - he flinched and stepped back hastily, afraid. They were both over six feet tall, dwarfing the shopkeeper easily; one was a redhead who clearly looked more unstable than his companion, evidenced by his unfocused eyes and unclear speech. The other was a giant of a man, standing approximately five inches taller than his red-haired acquaintance; he was bald and yet had a thick black mustache at the same time. Despite his intimidating physique, he looked more sane than the other man, which was why the shopkeeper approached him first.

"Can I... can I help you?"

"Oh, hello," Soda Popinski said, only just noticing the nervous shopkeeper. "I'm terribly sorry for the fuss. He won't remember any of this tomorrow, let me just get him out..."

But even as he said this, he saw (out of the corner of his eye) that the young man had staggered towards the back of the shop. Soda Popinski looked around with a vague feeling of dread, and with horror realized that they were in an underwear store for men.

And Aran Ryan was peering at one particular section picking out a couple of packets and staring into them with intense concentration. The older man ran towards him as soon as he saw this, his face burning with embarrassment.

"Aran, for heaven's sake - men don't just buy each other _speedos_-"

The younger man swore and slammed a fist into the wall, causing some bits of plaster to break off. A distance behind them, the shopkeeper winced. "Shut da feck up fer a min' and choose what colour ye want, ya eejit! Ye like dat one or what? Red te match ye clothes?"

He did not wait for an answer as he picked out a couple of speedos in said colour; as much as Soda Popinski was embarrassed about the whole thing, he was amazed that the younger man knew exactly what type of underwear he preferred, right down to the size, colour and fabric used. On the other hand, though, it was vaguely creepy.

"Ooh, I like dis one," the Irishman laughed crazily as he held up a pair of pink boxers. "ye think Joey boi will love dis if I git it fer 'im, head? Reckon it suits dat Frenchie?"

"Why _pink_? Put that down!"

Aran mumbled something under his breath as he reluctantly put the pair back. He made his way back to the shopkeeper while holding the two packs of speedos; after handing the poor man a couple of five-dollar notes, mumbling 'keep the change', he then proceeded to leave the store without any explanations. The Russian gave the shopkeeper a profound apology, and then ran out after the Irishman, leaving a very confused and bewildered shopkeeper behind.

"Are you all right? Aran, look at me!" he hollered as he caught up with the younger man. The latter had been swaying in a very unsteady manner, stopping in front of a florist's sign, gazing blankly at the words; he had to get the Irishman home now, or there would be trouble.

"I wanna buy flow'rs for 'im, Soda..." Aran slurred as he fell down on the pavement, too exhausted to walk any further. "maybe he'll love me back if I git flow'rs for 'im... oh my Gawd my head's spinnin'..."

The older man looked at the man lying beside him with pity. "... Even after I outlined all the reasons why you shouldn't get involved with him?"

"Can' help it,' the younger man replied, his eyes closing in exhaustion. "jus'... can' help it..."

Within seconds, he was asleep.

Soda Popinski said no more. He looked around, seeing the last of the passers-by hurrying past them, some looking over at the two men with disgust - they had no doubt realized that they were both drunk, and they simply didn't want anything to do with either of them. It probably didn't help that the two of them gave out an outwardly-aggressive aura. Sighing heavily, he reached in his coat for a small vodka bottle filled with his trademark soda; it wasn't a lot, but it would give the older man the strength to carry Aran back to where he lived. The Irishman's house was too far away, but for now, he could stay in the Russian's place.

But before he raised the bottle to his lips, he looked over at the younger man again. Aran was completely out of it, his eyes closed shut and his head lolled back; he was snoring ever so slightly, finally sleeping in peace after a long day full of unspoken frustrations and struggling with his own feelings. As unorthodox and crazy the young man was, Soda Popinski couldn't help but feel sorry for him. As much as the young man liked Glass Joe, the Russian knew that it would never work out. The concept was simply impossible to imagine in any way, shape or form. But there was no way that he could convince the Irishman to leave Glass Joe in peace; Aran was far too stubborn, far too illogical, and completely obsessed with the Frenchman. It was all an unending spiral of doom from the way Soda Popinski saw it.

Shaking his head, the older boxer put the bottle to his lips and drank all of the contents in one gulp. He stood up and lightly slung Aran over his shoulder as the effects of the soda kicked in almost instantly; there was no point in dwelling on such matters now. All that was left to be done was to take the young man back, lay him over the couch, and hope that he would forget about Glass Joe in the morning. But as he walked, he knew that the whole idea of Aran forgetting about the Frenchman was implausible - and yet he still hoped.

Aran needed someone to hope for him, so Soda Popinski would do exactly that. That was all there was to it.


	11. 11: Obligatory Cafeteria Chapter

**Author's Note:** Blegh this took so long I'm sorry I suck. College has started for me (high school equivalent, I think - I'm in the good ol' UK) and God is it demanding. Not to mention that I won't have too much free time until November. Now I must explain the title of this chapter - I realized that the first story in this collection featured major OOC-ness, and that it was ten chapters ago that happened. So as a tribute to that, every five/ten chapters or so will have an 'Obligatory (something) Chapter' that features equally OOC moments.

Anyway, this oneshot is quite short and it details a small event in the WVBA cafeteria. Lots of conversation are interlinked, but the main conflict is between Aran Ryan and Narcis Prince. I must admit, DeviantART inspired me on this one. I've only been writing for the Wii version so far, so adding a purely-SNES boxer - Narcis Prince - was a bit of a challenge. We know nothing of his backstory, and we don't know much about his origins. Heck, we don't even know his height. But I do have one advantage over writing him - he's a stereotypical Brit, and I'm surrounded by them here where I live. Not all Brits like tea and talk in a snobby accent, but there are enough people who fit that stereotype (partially) for me to write up a personality for Narcis. Personally, though, I must admit that the personality I've created for him myself kind of repels me. His handsomeness does nothing for me, unfortunately, and I really don't have enough to even create a reasonable background for him.

Then again, I thought that SNES boxers were more uninspiring than the NES ones... in my opinion, Punch-Out! on the NES had more character charm than Super Punch-Out!. And considering that those boxers were little more than a bunch of pixels with text attached to their 'speeches', that's kind of saying a lot. But enough of the tangent. There is very very faint slash here, again between you-know-who and the other you-know-who, but it's concentrated in one paragraph. You'll have to squint to see it, and it has little to no influence on the main story. Read on.

* * *

"-What I'm saying, Aran, is that you are _wrong_ and I am _right_. That's all you need to know."

"What you're saying is utter _crud_ and we both know it," a harsh voice snapped back in return. The two boxers who were talking entered the cafeteria and joined the queue, still bickering; they were on lunch break for two hours, and what better things were there to do than arguing their way through the entire break? One boxer was around six feet tall, with fiery red hair and blue eyes, and wore an expression of absolute irritation. The other was slightly shorter, with blond hair and blue eyes - and it was fair to say that he was exquisitely handsome. Compared to the other boxer, his expression was mild and almost sweet - but if one looked closer, they would have seen arrogance etched into every feature. He merely shook his head and gazed upon the other with contempt as the red-haired man continued to rant. There were plenty of people in the queue, but none of them bothered to interrupt the young boxers or even ask them what was going on; it was all the usual business as far as everyone was concerned. None of the boxers in the WVBA took sides when they saw the two arguing - as far as they knew, the two were _equally_ obnoxious.

"Oh, Aran and Narcis! There they go again," Glass Joe sighed, standing in front of his two friends (about halfway in the queue) as he picked up a ham baguette roll; he inspected it, nodded, and placed it down on his tray as he gave his approval. He was extremely picky when it came to food standards, not unlike his two companions. "what do you think they are arguing about now?"

Von Kaiser shrugged lightly, examining his coffee and determining whether it had too much froth for his liking; he didn't like froth or cream on anything he ate or drank, for it was difficult to keep such things off his mustache. Unfortunately, the coffee _did_ turn out to have too much froth, but he could do precious little about it. Sighing, he placed it down reluctantly. "_Ich weiß nicht mehr_. They argue so much and about so many different things."

"Maybe it's about a girl," Don Flamenco offered as he darted past, grabbing himself a chicken sandwich and a coffee cake along with a large chocolate milkshake; he usually ate very little, so this unusual combination of foods made the former two boxers blink in confusion. It didn't actually seem as if he was any more hungrier than he had been at previous times - so why so much food? But the matador gave no answers and quickly paid for his food, jogging along with his tray to the other side and sitting down by the corner. Glass Joe and Von Kaiser shared a glance - they followed suit, taking their seats opposite the young man. The latter paid them almost no mind as he drank a few sips of the milkshake and picked up his fork.

Nobody said anything for a while, while Aran Ryan and Narcis Prince continued to argue from the queue, drowning out everybody else.

The German boxer spoke first. "There is very little sense in overeating at this time of the day, Donato."

"Can't help it," Don Flamenco mumbled as he made his way through the cake (and it was a very large slice, as well). "if I'm going to defeat Little Mac once and for all, and take back the belt that he once took from me, I need energy to keep me going until I face him."

Glass Joe tilted his head slightly in question. "_Mais pourquoi_? Little Mac has become much stronger. Energy doesn't necessarily - ah, help you with your training. Strategy does."

"Well, I have no wish to take _anyone's _belt off - except perhaps for yours," Von Kaiser said, giving Glass Joe a slight nudge and a smile. This comment earned him a furious blush and a slap on the arm from the younger man; all the while, Don Flamenco looked upon them with an amused grin on his face. The two were not the most likely couple in the world, but they worked perfectly well with one another.

* * *

Everything would have been fine. But it appeared that Aran Ryan didn't agree.

"Cut the sappy crap!" Aran briefly turned away from Narcis to shout across the cafeteria at Von Kaiser. "you're making me heave over here!"

The older man bolted upright from his seat, his gaze suddenly turning murderous; this made everyone in the cafeteria turn their heads and gape, for Von Kaiser had always been self-composed. Until now.

"You little _schweinhund_!" the German snarled, making the others gasp. The older man never swore in the presence of others; he was much too dignified, and then there was his status as the oldest boxer in the WVBA- "I ought to-"

Aran Ryan was unaffected, but merely smirked at him. "Little, says the one who's an inch shorter than me! Aww, what's the matter, _Herr_ Von Kaiser? Did I strike a nerve?"

The older boxer clenched his teeth, furious with rage; he took a step forward, ready to challenge Aran to a fight, only to have a pair of arms wrapping around his waist and tugging him back. He glanced down in brief irritation - but then he discovered that Glass Joe was holding him, fear in his eyes, and he couldn't help but stop what he was doing. "_C'est bien, Monsieur_," the Frenchman whispered. "it's all right. Please calm down."

Von Kaiser said nothing. His expression was set and cold; but as he looked down at Glass Joe, his gaze softened ever so slightly. With enormous reluctance, he sat back down again - the Frenchman immediately took his hand, murmuring to him (in a mixture of French and English) that he appreciated everything that the older man was doing, and he was glad that the German had calmed down.

"Don't take any notice of him, good sir," Narcis Prince called from the other side, sounding actually genuinely concerned for once. "Aran is - ah - a little wound up. Lesser mortals like him must be avoided at all times, I say."

The German boxer continued to say nothing, but he nodded in acknowledgement towards Narcis's direction. He and Narcis Prince had initially been quite tense, for they knew that their grandfathers (and Von Kaiser's father) had been involved in both World Wars, fighting on their own respective sides. Both of them had been strict patriots. It was natural that the two boxers bore slightly difficult feelings towards one another, even with the knowledge that neither had actually been in a war of any kind - Narcis Prince had also disapproved of Von Kaiser's military background. However, they eventually came into a kind of understanding between one another; upon learning that their grandfathers had actually partaken in the Christmas Truce together, back more than fifty years ago, bearing hostility towards one another seemed pointless. They were not exactly friends - but they acknowledged each other with politeness and genuine understanding.

The Irishman, however, was not one to understand anything remotely similar. "Who are you calling a lesser mortal?"

A simple 'hmph' followed that remark. "Well, _you_ started it, Aran."

"Doesn't mean that you get to treat me like crap! Jaysus, I hate you Brits!"

"What a racket," the Englishman sneered, brushing a stray lock of his hair from his face and tucking it neatly behind his ear. "you should have some respect for Mr. Kaiser, Aran. It's certainly true that he's a redhead, much like you are - redheads are not my preference for _any _gender - and it's true that he can be bad-tempered. But Mr. Kaiser is actually capable of caring for others... like he just demonstrated. He's certainly more respectful and considerate than you are."

Aran snorted. "_Respectful! _Look who's talking!I don't recall seeing any of_ that _in you when you were making eyes at me sister!"

This accusation made the blond-haired boxer turn pale for a second or two; but then the colour flooded back to his face with alarming intensity. Aran watched, triumphant, as Narcis became far too indignant to say anything - he had actually succeeded in quietening the other for once. Unfortunately for him, it didn't last very long.

"So we're back to the main argument already, are we?" Narcis asked, disgusted. "well, fine, as you insist on arguing that one point. Since when was I 'making eyes' at your sister, Aran?"

"Forgotten already, eh?" the Irishman sneered, the smug look still on his face. "then let me remind you of this morning, when Sister Dear came to visit me - you just couldn't take your eyes off her, Narcis! Do you think I'm blind? I couldn't have missed your soppy grin from a mile away! You ain't so smooth and subtle as you think, did you know that?"

"Aran," Narcis Prince sighed. "I looked at your sister once. _Once_! It most definitely is _not_ my fault she smiled at me in return."

The Irishman scowled, glaring at the other; he obviously didn't believe this. "I don't care. _Keep away from her_ or I'll bust the hell outta you, you hear? I might not _like _my sister, but as if I'm going to let a god-damn eejit like you get near her-"

The queue had moved way forwards. Narcis Prince proceeded to point this out by ignoring Aran and walking right ahead, grabbing himself a tray - the Irishman noticed and quickly caught up, doing the same. He also took a dish and a pair of tongs, grabbing a couple of doughnuts for himself and a bottle of soda; it was evident that he didn't really care what he was having for lunch, and was only going through the motions of getting himself some food. He jogged after Narcis and slammed his tray down on the table, ignoring the protests from the lady at the counter - he hadn't paid for the doughnuts.

"I understand you're having a good ol' argument over there, boys," she hollered over the other boxers. "but could you at least show some decency and _pay_?"

"_Ah, mi amor_!" Don Flamenco interjected, pushing his way to the front of the queue - having eaten all of his food, he had gone for seconds - and smiled charmingly at the lady. "I'll pay instead. Don't fret - I wouldn't want to see your lovely face with a frown, _mi chica encantadora_!"

The lady huffed, giving the matador a small glare - but she nevertheless looked quite pleased as Don Flamenco handed over the money and winked at her. "Don't you have a girl by your side already? Away with you, you flatterer! At least I know chivalry _isn't _dead."

The young man said nothing, but merely flashed her a sweet grin. He took his tray, setting it down back on his table; but instead of sitting down, he began to make his way towards Aran and Narcis (much to the chagrin of Von Kaiser and Glass Joe). When it came to girls, or even relationship problems in general, it was he who would fix it.

"What's this about, my friends?" he said jovially as he approached. "problems with a girl? I could always advise you on what to do with a particularly-"

"You keep out of this!" Aran hissed, giving the Spaniard a hard shove.

Don Flamenco huffed - 'well, _really_!' - before returning to his own table; he then proceeded to complain about the obnoxiousness of Aran Ryan in a very loud voice. Had he been older, it would have had more effect - but in all honesty, Don Flamenco was exactly the same age as Aran (he was a couple of months _younger_, in fact) and therefore much of his words lost their seriousness. Everything he said seemed to equate to whining more than complaining. However, neither Aran nor Narcis were listening to a word of what he was saying.

* * *

Heaving a sigh, the Englishman leaned back on his chair, sipping his tea and looking bored. "Let us close this matter once and for all. I looked at your sister _once_, _you_ found it necessary to overreact, and _you_ continued to heckle me up until this point. Fine. I realize that. So what do you want me to do, Aran? Should I refrain from even mentioning your sister again, let alone ever looking at her whenever she comes to visit you? Should I go and drown myself for the heinous crime of looking at your sister? What do you want?"

"I wish the feck that you _would_ top yourself!" Aran snapped. "don't go anywhere near my sister ever again. Whenever she comes over, don't you dare even look at her. Don't attempt to chat her up, either - I'm saying this one for your own good," he said with some unrestrained glee. "last time someone tried to pick her up from a bar, she kicked them so hard that they became a soprano for the rest of their life. I don't quite like_ looking _at your slimy mug, Narcis, but I can't even begin to imagine you with a high voice! We can't have that, can we? If you think I'm bad, you should watch out for my sister."

The blond man gave little to no reaction. "And if I refuse?"

Aran Ryan shrugged, a small grin twisting his face; he had expected his answer all along, of course. Narcis Prince seldom adhered to threats of any kind. "What do I know? I've given you my warning, so if you don't keep to it, I obviously have a valid reason to knock some sense into that empty head of yours," he said, feeling triumphant and proud of himself - if Narcis didn't listen to his warning, it would be perfectly acceptable to beat his face in. If the Englishman kept to the warning, so much the better. From the way the Irishman saw it, it was a perfect trap - and the blond boxer couldn't even pretend that Aran hadn't said anything, for the speech had been delivered in a cafeteria full of people. Aran Ryan was the winner either way.

At least, he believed exactly that until Narcis began to laugh.

"Fine with me. Can't argue with that. But... what if your sister likes me back, Aran? Have you considered that?" he said, smirking proudly.

The Irishman's smile was instantly wiped off his face.

"Suppose I did 'make eyes' at your sister," Narcis continued. "Suppose I did fancy her. But what are you going to do if I made my move, and she happened to return my affections? I certainly couldn't ask her to like me back, nor can I force her. Love and affection cannot be manufactured nor falsified by a mere request, Aran, you know that much. If your sister is indeed as feisty and charming as you say she is, and if she says that she returns my feelings, then I think we can safely assume that she means it."

Aran inhaled sharply, hands gripping the edge of the table. "Don't you _dare_," he snarled, his eyes glinting dangerously. "if you even lay a finger on her, I'll-"

"I'm just supposing, Aran!" Narcis cut in. "just _supposing_. Who said it was even going to happen? And why would I specifically go for your sister when I have other fans eager to make my acquaintance? However... you have to admit that if the unexpected really did happen, things are quite likely to turn out that way. If I liked her, and she liked me back, then it doesn't make much difference if you disapprove, _does it_?"

He was right. He was right and the Irishman couldn't say otherwise. Aran Ryan contemplated just reaching over and giving Narcis a good punch in the face - but what would that make of him? It would do nothing but prove the Englishman right. He had fallen into his own trap quite effectively. Letting out a low growl, he sunk back into his seat and stared forlornly down at the doughnuts.

Narcis Prince scoffed at the sight, taking another sip of his tea. "See, I'm the one who's correct. _Je suis juste, je suis vrai_ - I'll say it in however many languages, I'm still _right_ and there's nothing you can do about it!"

Aran was only mere seconds away from strangling the Englishman. His hands were already twitching, eager to grab the other's neck and hold it as tightly as possible; but the most unlikely saviour came along to stop him doing this. Glass Joe, who had gone to the front of the cafeteria for seconds (and had been listening to the young boxers' conversation), quietly picked up his tray and went over to the two of them. He bent down to talk to Narcis, who looked around in surprise to see the Frenchman actually wanting to converse with him.

"Not to bother you, Monsieur Narcis," Glass Joe said, smiling in a soft, apologetic manner. "but 'I'm right' is actually said _'j'ai raison' _in French. I hope you're not offended."

With that, and another soft smile, he walked to his seat by Don Flamenco and Von Kaiser (who proceeded to congratulate him) and sat down, chatting along. Narcis Prince stared at him, open-mouthed, half indignant and half embarrassed that he had actually been corrected by another person; and by Glass Joe, of all people! And worse, the Englishman couldn't even argue against what Glass Joe had said. The man was a Parisian, and a very proud one at that - he couldn't very well challenge a Frenchman when it came to the French language. Aran Ryan had been watching all of this with surprise, but then a sly grin spread across his face as he slowly realized what had just happened. It didn't do anything to change the situation, but it sure did wonders for his ego, didn't it?

"Correct, my arse," he sneered. "why, Narcis, even Frenchie himself talks shite about you! And what's more, _he's _the one in the right - you ain't gonna argue French with someone who's grown up in France, are you? Gawd, you're such an eejit!"

Narcis said nothing more, but glared down at his tray.


	12. 12: A Day in the Life of King Hippo

**Author's Note:** Sorry about that particular instance of fail. College is a really really busy place.

Remember I once said that I might write a chapter entirely in Hippo-speech? Well, I decided to go ahead and do just that. However, as one needs to understand what exactly is going on, I added some translations. Hippo-speech is surprisingly difficult to write - simply because his speech is beyond what I can phonetically hear.

King Hippo is very mysterious. We don't know his height, weight or age and he comes from somewhere utterly fictional. He's perhaps one of the most creative boxers ever in the Punch-Out!! series. I see him as quite observant of his surroundings, actually - for all he looks like, he's definitely got more than just marshmallows in his head. I thought it might be fun to give King Hippo a rather sarcastic yet somehow humorous personality - Von Kaiser falls quite close with him in terms of character personality, in my opinion, but Kaiser is a little darker and less humorous. King Hippo is also the only boxer I appear to be unable to pair with anyone; consider yourself lucky, your Highness.

Anyway, this details one day in the life of King Hippo. Written in the form of diary entries, this is the first time I've written a whole oneshot in this format - but I think I did a relatively good job. This will be actually continued - but not in Hippo-speech. That oneshot will be written in the traditional format.

Chaos Wielder// Ah, danke! Narcis's incorrect French is also a trend I recognize in nearly all French classes - trying to pass off English grammar in French sentences. But I can't say I was never guilty of this either, and this is also present in just about any other language, so I can't really call it a stereotype and get away with it.

* * *

**7:35 a.m., 12th August, Hammock**

_HURRK. GRROMPH. GRAWAAH ROOOARGK URRRRRRRR! ARRRRRRRRH._

(Woke up in one's hammock surrounded by fresh fruit, brought straight from Hippo Island last night. Ate five apples, sixteen grapes, a gallon of orange juice and two or three watermelons for breakfast. Could have eaten the entire stack, but the Mustachioed Referee says that one must make an effort to go on a diet. One wholeheartedly disagrees with this suggestion, but one has learnt a long time ago that upsetting the Mustachioed Referee results in nothing good. And one is definitely wise enough to learn from those things. Will take his advice for a few more days.)

**7:50 a.m., 12th August, Bathroom**

_ROOOOOAR. HURK HURK GOMP GUUUUG. URK. MAAARK BLURK GRAAH._

(It appears we are experiencing some problems with underwear. Despite the so-called diet regime, we have gained eight pounds in the last week. Of course, it's not as if the extra weight shows up visibly, but it _is_quite annoying. All one knows is that our boxers have split at the seams - and we are in no position to go out and get a new one. One must preserve one's dignity and privacy. But one cannot stay locked up in a bathroom for ever. It is a very _cramped_ bathroom, after all. One has called over one's personal servant - hopefully this problem will be fixed in a matter of minutes.)

**7:51 a.m., 12th August, Bathroom**

_ARRRRRGH!_

(Where is that servant when one needs him?! One knows that one did throw him down the stairs yesterday, but surely he wasn't **so** hurt that he couldn't take orders. Perhaps one should consider alternatives...)

**7:58 a.m., 12th August, Bathroom**

_GLUUUMP. GODRRR._

(Problem solved.)

**8:30 a.m., 12th August, Streets**

_HARRRRRUMPH. GRANB RUSDPSOOMP._

(On the way to the WVBA. One could not be bothered to take public transport nor was one particularly inclined to be transported in any sort of vehicle. A classic hammock-litter does perfectly fine. It does look a little out of place in the streets, but as long as one gets there in one piece and the servants do not collapse halfway through, one has no problems with it.)

**9:00 a.m., 12th August, Entrance to the WVBA Building**

_CANUK THUUURP BROOOOOPT. CROOOOVBK. HURK. _

(Ran across the Redheaded Elders. They are exactly that - our elders who happen to be both redheads - one has said hello to them. We do not think either of them understood exactly what we were saying, but one did get the basic message across in the end. They are very affectionate with each other, having known each other for so long and having been in the WVBA for a considerable amount of time. Recently, they've also started to walk in close proximity with one another and talk in hushed voices - one has even spotted them _holding hands_ at one point!)

**9:30 a.m., 12th August, Minor Circuit Changing Room**

_GUUUHNOPRO. SOUUURKS. GUUUIKELSPIK, KOUFES! HUUR!_

(The Mustachioed Referee has fitted in new doors to make up for the one we destroyed a week ago. This pleases us very much indeed. Bear Hugger and one could easily walk in together and still be able to fit. This is what we would call sophisticated.)

**10:20 a.m., 12th August, Training Room**

_KRKGROG... BEEEGH. GRAUUUG OARRP GWAAAOOOR. URGHHH? OOAARWPORP!_

(One has started today's training with some weight-lifting! Many boxers leave this exercise until they are well into their day, preferring to work out lightly in the beginning. We call that a useless method. Heavy work is better done sooner than later. It gives one an excuse to eat large amounts of food later, and one also gets the tiresome work out of the way. Why won't anyone listen to us? They are all morons!)

**12:40 p.m., 12th August, Cafeteria Entrance**

_GRUARG. YUM. RAAAAARG...._

(Lunch break has commenced. One could do with a pizza or five. The ladies behind the counter give us the menus of the day (a process which requires a separate counter) and we decide which set to get. One isn't too hungry at the present moment, compared to other times, and there is also the diet regime - so right now one will be content with those pizzas and a sack of mangoes. They go surprisingly well together.)

**12:42 p.m., 12th August, Cafeteria**

_MMM._

(Make that five pizzas, a sack of mangoes, _and_ three cups of chocolate mousse.)

**1:00 p.m., 12th August, Cafeteria**

_OOOOOOOOOH. AWW. GURKGIDSP HURK HURK BOSLOOOODS._

(The two Redheaded Elders appear to be nuzzling into each other's arms. While it is adorable in a way, one is rather bothered by the fact that they are doing this in public. Of course, one has immense respect for our elders and will not make comments under any circumstances; as long as one is still allowed to eat the croissants that can be knocked out of the shorter of the elders, one has no problem with them.)

**1:05 p.m., 12th August, Cafeteria**

_BLEEEEGH._

(The Redheaded Elders are feeding each other pieces of bread. Adorable is now out of the question.)

**1:15 p.m., 12th August, Cafeteria**

_HRAG BOM KOMP RARGH. HAHAHAHA!_

(Aran Ryan has commented on his feelings for the Redheaded Elders' antics. One is not particularly surprised to make the observation that he appears extremely offended. However, he has also been gazing wistfully at the shorter one recently - perhaps it is his desire to beat more croissants out of the latter? One certainly knows that the croissants are excellent. But either way, the Elders responded with something roughly equivalent to 'You're just jealous, Aran,' - and now he has stormed out of the cafeteria, knocking over a few people in the way. We rather think that it's good riddance.)

**1:40 p.m., 12th August, Grounds outside Cafeteria**

_GRAAAH? GOHGHSOKORRR! BLUH GRAKULPPPP! _

(Disco Kid is trying to attract attention in the most terrible ways imaginable to man. Said ways include dancing around in the cafeteria with a tray balanced on his head, shouting incomprehensible variations of one's name. For some reason he is trying to break-dance simultaneously. We see the elders and the other boxers giving him looks of disgust - we shall take that as a sign that he must be stopped using any means necessary. As long as one has permission to do so, one has no qualms about doing as asked.)

**1:42 p.m., 12th August, Grounds outside Cafeteria**

_URRAAAR! GRAAAW!_

(One has finally done it! Just a punch on the jaw was enough to floor Disco Kid. Ah, blissful silence! We have also received thunderous applause for doing so - obviously we have gained the approval of the others. This is very good indeed. Lunch has been a successful affair. Now, back to training.)

**2:16 p.m., 12th August, Training Room**

_HRALL HOMP GOM URM. URGH. AH - PTHHRP. KOURTB HARRARG! ARRRR!_

_GRALHRHLLLLL?! ROAAAAR! NOOOOOO!_

(We have made our way to the training room and found - to our distaste - Aran Ryan smashing punching bags into the ground. He looked up and frowned in one's direction when one approached; we are trying to ignore him as of current times, and have relocated to the corner furthest from him. Hopefully he will not take out his anger on us - it is honestly not as if one can't block his attacks, but one can definitely not shield our ears from the long string of insults he is bound to throw in our direction. We fear that we may accidently end up breaking his neck if such a thing ever happens.

On the plus side, the Redheaded Elders, Super Macho Man and Bald Bull are also here. The latter two rather dislike Aran Ryan. As long as the violence is kept away from us, we shall enjoy the spectacle that is bound to ensue within a couple of hours.

But _what is this_? One has just weighed himself, and to our dismay, one appears to have gained _more_ than eight pounds. It appears the scales in one's bathroom were wrong. No wonder our boxers burst at the seams! They were very stretchy and durable boxers too. One must take very good care of one's physique now.)

**2:30 p.m., 12th August, Training Room**

_GHEERSKAS RARGH POGKLIFUPF GHUUURG. AAAAARGH!_

(Aran Ryan's blatant offensiveness is getting increasingly harder to ignore. Not merely content with picking on our physique, he has now moved on to muttering random insults about Bear Hugger. While one does not quite like Bear Hugger (suspenders - oh Gods, the _suspenders_!!), he does not deserve that treatment. One has moved a little closer to Aran Ryan, only to be met with something along the lines of _'Oi, take your blubber somewhere else, fatty!' _- this is a particularly insensitive remark, for one is still rather bothered by the weighing incident. One thinks he ought to be fitted with a giant gobstopper. That'll teach him.)

**2:50 p.m., 12th August, Training Room**

_HUUUBORP, GRUN RRROMP!_

(Taking a short break from training! One has ordered some snacks to be brought, and we are currently enjoying a dish or four of baked yams. One believes that the sight has driven Aran Ryan out of the room, which gives one a temporary advantage; now one does not need to endure his presence for a couple of hours. Knowing him, he will refuse to return until one is gone - and by then, one will be heading out of the WVBA anyway.)

**3:10 p.m., 12th August, Training Room**

_GRUNK. GRAG._

(Back to work! Must try at least two push-ups without destroying the floor.)

**3:12 p.m., 12th August, Training Room**

_OOPS. HRAAAG FEGUUK._

(Oh. One appears to have done exactly that. Now the boxers only have a very small space to continue with their exercises. Super Macho Man and Bald Bull have stormed outside; apparently they are trying to find somewhere else to Redheaded Elders do not seem to mind. In fact, they seem to like it better with a smaller space. Perhaps the fact that they are both half-naked adds to this factor. We will try not to stare even if they start being far too passionate for one's own comfort.)

**4:00 p.m., 12th August, Minor Circuit Changing Room**

_THOOOORP BLEGH. URK URK GOMP. WRAGH! ROWR..._

(Finally! The end to a long day. One would normally finish at five, of course, but today is special because it's Friday. The Minor Circuit finishes at four, while everybody else still has to train until five. Ha! This is why we do not want to fight our way up the ranks - any time spent without food is not particularly important to us. Disco Kid is flaunting his naked chest around the Minor Circuit changing rooms, his massive headphones blasting at full volume, screaming something that one cannot fully understand. One is guessing that it equates to something like 'I've got the disco fever!', but one cannot be sure. All we understand is that it is very obnoxious, coming from a twenty-year old youth. Perhaps he must be hit harder next time. The Redheaded Elders appear to agree.)

**4:38 p.m., 12th August, Bedroom**

_BRAAAAKKKK. HRHRLLLOAR URK HRK! ZZZZZZZZZ._

(Got back safely. One can now have that nap for a few hours. We have received a note from the Mustachioed Referee - apparently, there will be an Association party tonight. One is required to attend for at least a couple of hours. We have no complaints about that, of course - the food is excellent and there will be a _lot_ of it. As there are separate parties for each Circuit (everyone gets together once every year, but that almost never works out), one also does not have to deal with anyone except for the Redheaded Elders. No Aran Ryan there! Perhaps Disco Kid will be at the reception - but he is only present at every other party, and one finds it quite unlikely he will be there. Even if he is, we can deal with him easily. Now, on to that nap!)

**7:40 p.m., 12th August, Bedroom**

_KOPRK GOM GOM HURRK._

(Woken up! One does not have to put on a tuxedo or any other formal suit, which makes things significantly easier. Will dine at the party. Our diet can wait another day! What could possibly go wrong? One's servants will be close by, and the Redheaded Elders will be occupied with each other's presence. Disco Kid will be dealt upon arrival, if he has attended at all. We shall set off immediately.)

**9:24 p.m., 12th August, Party Hall**

_UUUUUUUURRRGGGGGGGGGGG._

(THIS IS NOT HAPPENING. NO. WE REFUSE TO BELIEVE IT.

GET US OUT OF HERE! HELP! WE ARE... _**NOOOOOOOOOO**_-)

**11:10 p.m., 12th August, Hammock**

(_Translator's Note_: Our King has passed out following a particularly disturbing phone conversation with the World Circuit boxers. Mr. Little Mac and Mr. Bear Hugger have helped us to carry him back to his hammock - I just hope he doesn't get angry with me for making this note. Our king is so sensitive about those matters. His Highness will hopefully recover soon. He has endured worse before. Meanwhile, us servants will go back and consume all the food left in the party hall - our king isn't eating any of it now, and we Hippo Islanders never let food go to waste. Isn't life grand?)


	13. 13: The Days of Our Lives

**Author's Note:** Oh Christ, I'm so sorry for that, guys. I'm pretty sure I've lost all my readers now. x.x Real life has been sucking for a long time, and I've also been suffering from writer's block the past few months. I really do suck. I'm hoping to get back in gear soon, but regular updates will be seldom.

This was written as an exploration piece as to the Referee's character. And no, not Referee Mario either - the one in the Wii game. He's an awesome man. But I've always had the feeling that he doesn't have it any easier than the boxers do - he's got to take care of them, and from the looks of it in the Wii game, he's the one who can truly control most boxers. Perhaps he takes care of news from the boxers' respective countries when they're away. And apart from the Referee, this piece also delves into my version of Von Kaiser's past. I like the basic idea, but due to my writer's block and current lack of imagination, I think it's far too melodramatic. Von Kaiser's real name that I've come up with is also given here, and I'm happy with that. Just not his past.

I don't like this piece very much, if I'm honest. It's full of drama, antiquated ideas, fancy names, Von Kaiser talks too much and all in English. It's a break from my almost-minimalistic style of talking that I've given him, and thus he sounds truly out of character here. Shame on me, shaaaaaaaaaaaaame. But I'm getting back into the swing of things right now. Forgive me.

I know I said that I'll continue the King Hippo storyline. But I'm stuck on that too. God do I suck. x.x

* * *

The WVBA held many boxers, and with them came an intricate collection of their dual lives. Some boxers made their image part of their daily lives, of course, and some preferred to leave the stage persona within the ring; but the truth was that there was a clear distinction between private life and public image for every boxer. Not one of them (not even the flamboyant ones) acted the same way they did in public when they were getting on with their own lives. For a good example, those who only knew Don Flamenco by his arrogant, dramatic public appearance were in for a shock when they met face-to-face with the true Don Flamenco; he was actually elegant, polite, soft-spoken and fairly gentle. Sure, he was still a ladies' man all right - but there was only one woman he loved, and her name was Carmen. This would definitely be a stark contrast to his image within the ring.

But did every boxer in the Association know about the way the others acted in private? The answer would be no; everyone knew enough in the WVBA to not go snooping into other people's business. They could ask questions, and they would get an answer if approached politely enough - but there was also a fine line between private and public life, and everyone knew better than to cross that boundary. The boxers only shared details of their private life with their close/intimate friends, but then that was it.

However, there was only one exception to this rule: the Referee.

One had to remember that many of those boxers had family back in their respective countries. The boxers didn't always hear about an unexpected situation back home in time to deal with it; so what the Referee did apart from watching over the matches was to keep track of anything that needed to be passed onto a certain boxer. If urgent contact was made, the Referee would arrange for them to be sent home immediately - otherwise, this enigmatic judge was usually the best way to get information regarding the boxer's families on an almost-daily basis. As a result, the Referee knew many things about the private lives of all the men, and nobody could complain about this arrangement. He knew far more than everyone knew about their peers.

What the Referee knew, however, was strictly confidential. He knew that Glass Joe had no family, being orphaned mere days after being born, and that he lived with only a cat called Musette for company; the Referee was infinitely kind to the Frenchman, often sharing small talk and offering him full use of a spare room in the building to get away from the other boxers should he ever have a truly terrible day. But he kept all of this to himself, Glass Joe did the same, and thus most boxers were unaware of how things really were with the Frenchman.

The Referee had also been the key to keeping relations between Aran Ryan and Narcis Prince somewhat stable, back when the Englishman was in the WVBA. The two had been almost permanently at each other's throats, but under the watchful gaze of the older man, neither had been able to do any significant damage to the other. Eventually Narcis Prince left the WVBA; but had it not been for the Referee's almost constant presence, no one could doubt that things would have turned out horribly different.

And this was the power that the grey-haired man held in the world of the WVBA - he could keep boxers in check simply by observing and frequently interacting with everyone. He knew so much about every boxer that he could sympathize with them on a personal level, but at the same time, he kept things in balance by being the calm, fair judge of the matches. This was an emotionally difficult thing to accomplish, but the Referee did so well, and everyone respected him highly for it.

But of course, it was not to say that the Referee didn't have his own faults. He was only human - a less flawed human being than many boxers, but still susceptible to making mistakes. He kept things fair and professional when he was judging the matches, but when it came to judging by decision, he sometimes had a very hard time deciding who would win and who would lose. And as a result, he'd definitely had experiences dealing with furious boxers demanding to know why he'd chosen to let their opponents win. This got especially bad when the phenomenal young boxer, Little Mac, came into the scene - he usually won fair and square, and the Referee had admired that. And the Referee often let Little Mac win in a decision match, and felt that his actions were justified, for the boy's skills in his fights were undeniable. But he'd had to face the wrath of boxers who had been shamefully humiliated as a result.

However, the older man had dismissed those occurrences as simple anomalies, more of the others' fault and less his own. Over the years, he had developed a subconscious way of thinking that if there was anything wrong in the WVBA, or anything bad happened to the boxers, he would be the one who could fix it. And he'd only very rarely suffered incidents that made him question this thought - so he went with his daily life, observing the situations in the WVBA, thinking all the time that he would fix things if anything went wrong.

One particular day in spring shook his belief once and for all.

* * *

"Mr. Kaiser!"

The two men sitting next to one another turned around. Von Kaiser, who had been sitting with one arm around Glass Joe's shoulders, looked back in annoyance - until he saw that it was the Referee, upon which he stood up straight away. The Frenchman followed, giving both men a questioning glance. "Come with me to the office... urgent news..."

"Is it related to my family?" Von Kaiser asked, sounding surprisingly calm.

"I cannot give any details here," the Referee replied curtly, and turned on his heels, motioning for the German to follow. He kept things formal with everyone, especially out of his office; the Referee didn't want to appear as if he were closer to some than others. Von Kaiser turned briefly to say something to the confused Frenchman; Glass Joe nodded, looking concerned. The older man then grasped the other's shoulder quickly with one hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze, before he pulled away to follow the waiting Referee.

They walked in silence for a minute before the grey-haired man stopped and opened a door, beckoning Von Kaiser inside; the German entered the room, briefly noting the simple yet well-furnished interior, whilst the Referee locked the door behind them.

"Please sit down," the older man said quietly. Von Kaiser sat down on an armchair, but said nothing; his gaze continued to follow the Referee as the man sat down opposite him. "and I shall ask you to prepare yourself for the bad news."

The German boxer nodded.

"I received word this morning," the older man continued, sweeping a hand through his hair, suddenly looking exhausted; he was obviously reluctant to give the news to Von Kaiser. "from your estate - I regret to pass on the news, I truly do." He paused again before carrying on.

"Your father - Herr Heinrich von Rothschild - passed away last night."

Von Kaiser sat still after the words had been spoken. He was silent, and his expression changed very little, but his gaze was blank and unseeing. It didn't appear as if he was having trouble taking the information in, nor did he look as if he was in denial - he was literally just sitting there, staring blankly into thin air. The Referee watched him closely, feeling uncomfortable.

"They said he had suffered a stroke three months ago, and had caught pneumonia soon afterwards. He died peacefully in his sleep."

Still nothing.

But the light was slowly coming back into Von Kaiser's eyes. His gaze was no longer blank, but had regained its calm quality; however, now there was something else in that gaze, something that burned with almost a triumphant light. The Referee hadn't expected to see such a change, and it was admittedly unnerving - but he shook it off and waited for the German boxer to speak, having delivered all the details he needed to deliver.

"Well," Von Kaiser finally spoke, getting up from the armchair. "I'd foreseen it for a long time. I can't say I am surprised. Is that all the news you have to give to me?"

"Yes, but that's hardly the point," the older man replied quietly. "when do you plan to return?"

The German raised his eyebrows. "Return? To Berlin? _Mein Gott_! Quite likely never, thank you very much. Certainly not for purposes like those."

This hadn't been the reaction that the older man had expected. The Referee's calm, composed mask slipped at this harsh reply, and he frowned, staring at the German boxer in front of him. He had never known all that much about Von Kaiser's family - they seldom made contact, and he had always been under the impression that the German wasn't on very good terms with his family. But this was beyond just that - Von Kaiser was refusing to return to them, even when his father had just died. Von Kaiser was never the type to leave loose ends in anything he was involved in (including family matters, of course), so this was certainly unexpected.

"_Your father_ has passed away. Even if you weren't on good terms with him in life, I believe you have a duty to attend his funeral at least."

"_Nein_. I most certainly do not."

The grey-haired man inhaled and exhaled, trying to regain his composure. He could foresee a long and complicated conversation ahead; they were going to have to get into Von Kaiser's private life, and that seldom ended up well. But he had to try - a death was hardly the thing to dismiss. "You are his only son and the current _Freiherr von Rothschild_. You have a responsibilty to take charge now - please do go back, at least for the funeral."

"I'm aware of my responsibilities," came the cool reply. "I'm perfectly happy to pay the funeral expenses. I just do not wish to be there."

Von Kaiser walked towards the door as he said this and reached for the doorknob. As far as he was concerned, that was the end of the conversation; however, the Referee didn't see it that way at all. He stood up, frown deepening - he wouldn't let this one slide. As the German boxer grasped the doorknob and turned it, the Referee's hand slammed down on the partly-open door and shut it again. Von Kaiser looked at him, more bewilderment in his eyes than annoyance.

"Sit - back - _down_," the grey-haired man commanded, his words coming out in a slow, restrained manner. Von Kaiser (for a moment or two) couldn't comprehend why the Referee was suddenly so irritated; but then realized that the older man took his defiance as a challenge to his power in the Association. But Von Kaiser himself wasn't the most agreeable person in the world; and he was dead set on not going back to Berlin. So he _didn't _sit back down, and merely looked at the Referee. "if you're worried about your upcoming matches or training, that can be rearranged. There's nothing you can be blamed for in situations like this."

"_Ich habe nein gesagt_!" The German boxer snapped. "I said no. I'm not going to go back."

"But what about the things you father did-"

"A lot he's done for _me_," Von Kaiser said coldly, and turned his back on the older man.

"_Karl!_" the Referee finally shouted, at the end of his patience. That most definitely stopped Von Kaiser, if nothing else; the man froze and stood very still. Over all those years, the Referee had never referred to him by his first name - this was most definitely a break from the norm, and stunned Von Kaiser. "Listen to me. I don't doubt that you and Herr von Rothschild had conflicts. But he's - he's your father, Karl, and regardless of what you think of him, it's more than just a case of paying for the funeral!"

Von Kaiser said nothing for a while.

"_Nicht_," he finally answered, his voice flat. "I haven't been called that in a very long time and this is hardly the time to start."

The grey-haired man opened his mouth to respond, but Von Kaiser went on. "You think you know how things were between my father and I - but you know nothing about that. It was far more than just conflict that I experienced from my father; and you know absolutely nothing of what happened to both of us. What makes you think you can judge me for my decision?"

"Try me," the Referee shot back, crossing his arms over his chest. "start from the beginning, right from when you first inherited the title and whether you even intend to accept all the responsibility that comes with it."

The younger man nodded after a brief pause. "_Ich bin Karl Freiherr von Rothschild_," he stated clearly in German, knowing that it was enough for the other to understand. "I accept what I am responsible for, but I do not have and _never_ had an attachment to Heinrich von Rothschild since early childhood."

"When was the title passed onto you?"

"I was eight years old when I was informed that I was a baron," Von Kaiser said quietly. "and why was I passed the title when I was so young? Because my father married someone my grandfather didn't approve of, when my mother died shortly after I was born. That marriage came far too quickly by anyone's standards. Heinrich von Rothschild was stripped of his title, and had it passed on to me when I was merely one. I merely was informed of it years later, when in reality I had been the baron almost since birth."

"But what did that change? Legal privilege for nobility was very limited during that time, and nonexistant now. Surely it made little to no difference."

"I didn't think it would make a difference either," the German said indifferently, but his eyes were downcast. "and I didn't receive any privilege. Just a large amount of land that was inherited generation by generation, and enough wealth to fill every inch of free space with wonderful objects - but any rich fool can do that. _Nein_, that's far from the problem. My father had me sent to my grandfather - had me educated there until I was nearly eighteen, and had me sent straight to university. All throughout that time - I was twenty-two when it was all done - I saw Heinrich eight times in fourteen years. He tried to fill me with the faults he had, and rejected me - and for that I've hated him since I was a child. I ran away to the army once I had learned all I needed to know. The title of a baron means nothing - especially not when it destroyed what little attachment there had been between me and my father."

The Referee was silent. For the first time since they had been in this office, he had lost the upper hand; this was something far beyond his ability to take command, and he was rapidly losing what little control he had over the situation. Von Kaiser had revealed an extremely personal detail of his life, and the Referee had not been prepared for nor had expected any of it. Since when had a simple plea for the younger man to go back to Berlin turned into this?

"What about your grandfather?" He managed to ask.

"_Mein Großvater_? No, I hated them both - I hated them all, and I still do. Do you think I mourned for him when _he_ died?" Von Kaiser had apparently said enough, for when he said this he turned straight back to the door. "I do not feel like discussing this any longer. Let me out."

"... I don't doubt that he did things that were less than decent, especially when you were so young. But he's gone, Karl, he's gone for ever, and you're indifferent to it - isn't that wrong to you, even just a little?"

"Perhaps I may one day regret it - but right now, I'm glad that he's gone." Von Kaiser said coldly, opening the door with a decisive click. "Now, if there is nothing else you need to tell me, I will leave. _Schönen Tag noch_."

And he carried on walking.

The Referee stared, dejected; he was fighting a losing battle, and he knew it far too well. "But it's not right," was the only thing he could say to this. "Karl... it's... not right."

Von Kaiser glanced back, a hint of a cynical smirk on his lips.

"It's no more wrong than what he did to me."

He left.

* * *

The grey-haired man stared at the closed door for a long moment before collapsing on an armchair. He sighed very heavily, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead exasperatedly; he did think about running out and forcefully dragging Von Kaiser back for a second, but he knew that there was no point to that. Von Kaiser had made up his mind not to go anywhere, and if the Referee kept on trying to interfere, he would be more than happy to land a punch or two on the older man. And violence was the very last thing the man wanted to deal with right now.

At first, he thought that it was just Von Kaiser's woefully inadequate childhood that had affected him so much. But little by little, the Referee realized that it was not that; rather, his belief that he held the power to fix everything in the WVBA had been mercilessly destroyed, and it had left him quite shaken. Suddenly he felt tired - extraordinarily tired - and he slumped back on the armchair, closing his eyes, trying to blank out his thoughts.

He could do nothing about Von Kaiser's family matters. It went down too deep, far too deep for the Referee to interfere in any way. He couldn't even persuade the German boxer to go back to Berlin for a few days; he'd lost the battle, and the Referee was left with only a feeling of utter dread and despair. After almost twenty-five relatively smooth-sailing years of taking care of other people's troubles, he had hit a wall that he didn't know the way around of. Inwardly he kept on saying to himself that it was merely a one-time incident, but he couldn't shake off that dread.

Would he carry on like this? Would he be able to get back on track? The Referee was suddenly aware of the large responsibility he had - he had spent over two decades taking care of the boxers, their relationship to others, and keeping them in contact with their respective families. He had thought that he could fix anything related to those matters. But no longer. His belief had been badly shaken and as a result, the Referee was no longer sure of his ability to keep things in check. Soon it would not be just about Von Kaiser and his family - it would involve the other boxers themselves, perhaps not of their families but the relationships between each of them.

So how long until things started truly falling apart?

The Referee was fifty years old, and only growing older. It would only be a few years before he would be out of touch with the newer boxers who were joining the Association. And what then? He had to take care of them and their families as well, but his ability to do so would lessen as the boxers he knew left the WVBA one by one. He had seen so many leave the place already, and when he was too old to cope with the boxing scene, another referee would take over. Then he was past history. The Referee supposed that he had known it all along, but had not truly acknowledged it until now.

Sighing, he stood up and reached for the phone. If he was going to brood about this for a while longer, he might as well take care of immediate things first and inform Von Kaiser's family that the man would not be returning to Berlin. But that meant defeat, once and for all, and he sighed again as his fingers pressed the numbers that would let him speak to the German boxer's family.

His fingers trembled for just a second, and then he pressed the 'dial' button.

He hated every single second of the process.


	14. 14: Versteckspiel

**Author's Note: **This was meant to be done for April, but life got in the way. Again. But I at least have something, although I fear it's not the best work I've ever done.

This is actually a strange piece, written in somewhat jittery prose. I'd actually describe this as a series of interconnected vignettes stitched together to create a complete story, rather than a planned oneshot. So you get to see lots of exclusive detail in some parts, verging into scenery porn sometimes - and also you can expect time-skips of days, weeks, and years. It was an experiment to the vignette style of writing that is characteristic of some surreal fiction - like Murakami Haruki, almost. How well it turned out is up to you to decide, although I do feel this story could have had a stronger framework. A much stronger framework. Motives are not very clear in this one, and that's a major flaw. It's a different universe as to the previous ones, as this one does not feature Musette.

And of course, this is _very_ strongly Von Kaiser x Glass Joe all the way through. It's actually a lime fic, I'd say - probably the most risque piece I can put up here without it having to go in the M-section. It's... pretty damn limey towards the end. So let that be a warning; unlike a lot of fics in this collection, _this slash is not merely implied_. It is there, full-on, and it is quite strong. Also sometimes rather fetishy. Feels like I tossed a load of fetishes into a melting pot and came up with this.

I also wrote this while I was in caffeine withdrawl. I think it shows, just slightly. I'm sticking to neutral fics next time.

* * *

Glass Joe was incredibly cute.

That was the absolute gospel truth. The Frenchman might as well have the word 'cute' scribbled all over his forehead - At least, Von Kaiser saw it that way. He was _that_ charming, believe it or not; everything he did was absolutely adorable, and he couldn't help himself thinking like that. The German had been fighting alongside the man for over a decade, and it was fair to say that if _he_ hadn't realized that the younger man was cute by now, nobody else ever would. It had gotten to the point where Glass Joe was permanently on Von Kaiser's mind; the latter spent much of his free time marvelling at the Frenchman, and had subconsciously started making lists of the other's strange and wonderful behaviours.

He couldn't quite decide what Glass Joe's cutest actions and moments were. Was it the way he smiled in his sleep? Being quite frail and prone to tiring easily, the Frenchman sometimes took small naps in between bouts of training. And although he was very much focused during matches, Von Kaiser knew that the younger man would hide away somewhere (sometimes he was punched in his sleep, which led to him hiding) after a match to sleep off his exhaustion - sometimes sleeping upwards of five hours at a time. But no matter how injured or tired he was, Glass Joe would always fall asleep with a smile on his face. Von Kaiser stumbling upon the younger man sleeping in odd places was hardly a rare occurrence; during those times, he got to enjoy the other's relaxed, serene expression. The German boxer took some comfort in the fact that Glass Joe could at least find some peace whilst he was sleeping.

Of course, the Frenchman's cuteness ceased to matter when (very rarely) Von Kaiser ended up accidently waking the other man up. Giving explanations as to what he was doing in those precise hiding places were always very awkward affairs. Glass Joe was never suspicious of him, of course, but that hardly made the whole thing easier on Von Kaiser.

But the truth was, he liked seeing the Frenchman smile. He liked to see him peaceful at least in slumber after enduring a hard day's training. Over time he began to search out the younger man more, almost making it into a game - Glass Joe hid somewhere, and Von Kaiser would walk through the WVBA building, looking through every single room and every nook and cranny to find him. The Frenchman's hiding locations were always very much random, and often finding him could take anywhere from half an hour to more than three hours. They never said anything to each other whilst awake about those matters - and it was far too often that when Von Kaiser found Glass Joe after a long search, he would simply watch the sleeping form of the younger man for a minute and leave immediately. Sometimes he would leave medical supplies and water for the other to find. However, over the months and years it had turned into a game of hide-and-seek, one that both parties had sworn secrecy to without ever speaking about it. The German couldn't figure out for the life of him _why_ he was so obsessed, but he wasn't exactly complaining about this arrangement. He knew better than to be impatient about human beings - he would carry on and keep on observing, and hopefully one day he'd be able to figure out how they had both eased into this game without ever saying a word.

And Von Kaiser figured it out one day in December when he was forty years old.

* * *

The incident that had opened his eyes to what was truly going on only lasted one minute or so. Von Kaiser had been working out in one of the training rooms, and had stopped for a break and a drink of water, when he saw the Frenchman entering the room out of the corner of his eye. The German kept silent, giving no indication he'd ever seen the younger man come in - he wasn't feeling too comfortable with Glass Joe at the time, for just the day before he had failed to find out where the Frenchman had been sleeping. He didn't at all feel comfortable with the notion that Glass Joe had stayed for hours wherever he had been, perhaps waiting for the older man to come and find him.

Glass Joe noticed him and walked over. "_Bonjour, _Monsieur."

"_Guten Tag_."

"How are you?"

"I'm perfectly fine."

This conversation was far too awkward for the older man's liking; he turned away slightly and reached for his water bottle, drinking a quarter of the contents in one swig. He wasn't all that thirsty - he just needed some way of distracting himself from the conversation without both of them falling into an even more awkward silence. The Frenchman, however, did not leave, and simply watched the other drink. It was only after Von Kaiser had stopped drinking and the water bottle was put down that the younger man spoke again.

"I was sleeping in the corner of the gym yesterday, Monsieur."

The German's eyes widened and he quickly looked around; Glass Joe was looking away, his eyes downcast - but still he stayed. "I meant to drop hints as to where I was, but it seems that my attempts weren't good enough this time."

Von Kaiser was silent for one moment as he tried to make sense of this information. "I see," he finally uttered. "but... that would be beyond the point of me trying to find you in this building. It has always been a challenge, Joseph. I don't... see why you would want to-"

"I _wanted_ you to find me," Glass Joe cut in, looking directly into the other's eyes. Von Kaiser was lost for words, staring into those soft brown eyes for a full minute; this had been the first time in all those years that they had ever spoken of their 'game'. They were engaged in silent co-operation, nothing more, and even then Von Kaiser had never quite known if Glass Joe was perfectly aware of all of this happening or not.

"I know you're the one who's leaving supplies for me to find. And that you watch me sometimes."

It appeared now that he was. The older man could not say anything in his defence; it was true, after all, and it wasn't as if he hadn't seen it coming. All those years of silently watching had caught up with the Frenchman, and Von Kaiser had known that it would inevitably happen. "I've known for at least a year now."

"_Es tut mir leid_," was the only thing Von Kaiser could truly say. "I apologize if I've offended you."

He stood up and began walking towards the door, feeling quite uncomfortable and eager to remove himself from the situation. He had watched the younger man, looked out for him all this time - but despite knowing the risks, and knowing that Glass Joe might catch on to him any time, he truly hadn't planned on getting caught. However, he was soon stopped by Glass Joe, who reached out and grabbed the other's arm with a resolute hand.

"I don't mind at all," the Frenchman said in a soft, barely audible voice - but there was genuine emotion in that tone. He was looking away from the older man, but Von Kaiser could see that his cheeks were pink; the two stood there for a while, their gazes averted and yet still connected by Glass Joe's hand grasping the other's arm. Mercifully, the bell announcing the end of a match was soon heard; soon all the boxers would come back the changing rooms. The two sprang apart, murmuring a hasty apology to each other and leaving the place by different routes before anyone came in and found them.

It hadn't at all been a pleasant experience. Von Kaiser had to admit feeling an intense surge of dread for the entirety of that day - he was glad that Glass Joe hadn't been angry at him, but none of that exchange had been comfortable nor even remotely conclusive. He was loath to recall the experience for the rest of the day, and spent his time avoiding the younger man whenever he caught a glimpse of him; and he also went home earlier than usual so that he wouldn't have to be around the Frenchman for any longer than he could take.

However, he did think about it a lot more when he had gotten home that evening. And in exchange for a vastly sleepless night, he came up with various thoughts and theories that he had either never thought of or had never dared to explore.

Von Kaiser had always taken a highly passive approach to the people around him. It wasn't because he cared none for people - it was far more that they didn't interest him enough. Glass Joe was an exception to this, but even then the older man had lacked interest in the other's personal life or even simple everyday habits. He had always believed that he had simply developed an interest for Glass Joe's 'cute' behaviour within the WVBA, nothing more, and he had never before tried to consider what the younger man might have felt about the whole thing.

But now he had witnessed a reaction and a confirmation that Glass Joe was aware of what was going on. And because of that, Von Kaiser was naturally led to wonder if the younger man thought about him a lot - he had known for over a year, and it must have dwelt on the Frenchman's mind. Glass Joe honestly hadn't seemed to mind being watched and sought after in his hiding places, and the older man truly had to wonder _why_ he didn't mind. If _he_ had discovered that he was being watched in his sleep, Von Kaiser knew that he would be disturbed, regardless of whether the watcher was friend or foe. Apparently this was not the case with Glass Joe.

So then why did the Frenchman not mind?

Figuring out other people's thoughts and feelings had never truly been Von Kaiser's forte - he was more experienced with predicting plans and intentions. Putting the thought aside for the time being, he decided to think about his own self - it would surely make more sense if he could suss himself out before he tried with someone else.

The Frenchman was the cutest thing he'd ever laid eyes on. He knew that much. The younger man was sweet and quiet, gentle to everyone and yet never close to anyone in particular; even in his happiest moments, there was always that sense of distance in his eyes. Von Kaiser had always found that quite attractive, how he managed to be simultaneously honest with his feelings and yet always disclosed very little; how he could be beaten so many times in the ring and manage to get back up again every time. This was something Von Kaiser couldn't quite manage to do himself - he was always either too unemotional or too much so, often in rather wild swings. The German truly admired Glass Joe's ability to be like that - and there was more. The Frenchman was the most likable person in the entire WVBA, being a good listener and being wise beyond all of his thirty-six years when it came to life beyond boxing. Glass Joe was - _perfect_ - in the older man's eyes. A lot of the things he did were admirable, fascinating and at the very least interesting to the German.

And he supposed that this was what led him to seek out the younger man. Glass Joe got beaten up so much that quite a few of the boxers ended up feeling sorry for the man; he deserved his sleep and breaks from reality every now and then, and Von Kaiser simply wanted to see him in a peaceful state. Seeing the Frenchman bruised and hurt was something the other loathed having to see, and this is why he left those medical kits for the other - if he couldn't treat the younger man himself, he at least wanted the other man to be able to patch himself up without trouble. He loved seeing Glass Joe smile, he loved to see him happy, and he knew that he would be willing to do anything for the younger man if it made him happy. That could only mean-

"_Gott im Himmel_," Von Kaiser whispered hoarsely to himself as he lay on his bed. He soon groaned and brought his arm up to cover his eyes, feeling a sinking sensation within him.

He was in love with Glass Joe.

* * *

He spent the rest of that week thinking about it all, searching for something, _anything_ that might have allowed him the possibility of him _not_ being in love with the Frenchman. Was it simply a deep sort of friendship? No; friendships were built upon slowly over time, which was not exactly the case with him and Glass Joe. They had not progressed all that far beyond being acquaintances - this emotion was something quite different, and with it came a sudden desire to know more about the other. Von Kaiser had nothing against love; he just didn't understand why it was with _Glass Joe,_ of all people. He cared for the the younger man dearly, but the thought of actually being in love with Glass Joe - was simply _confusing_.

Glass Joe and Von Kaiser were close as two boxers could be as acquaintances. And that really wasn't that close in perspective, the older man had to admit; he knew very little about Glass Joe's background and his personal life. He had never needed to know - when the two met, it was usually at the cafeteria, fighting a match against one another (this hadn't happened in ages), attending matches, training with each other, or even meeting for a drink to discuss the WVBA life at a nearby bar. There had been nothing _personal_ involved. So where an intimate emotion like _love_ entered into it was an enigma. Von Kaiser had reached no further conclusions, save for the absolute assertion that he was in love. This both excited and depressed him.

He was led to remember that one time, years back, when Glass Joe had lost a bet with Don Flamenco and had wear a full French maid outfit for two hours, complete with frills and black silk stockings. All the boxers had laughed about the the whole thing, but aside from the newly-arrived Aran Ryan's snide remarks ('What's with the ribbons, Frenchie? Are you a _girl_?') everyone had agreed that it suited the Frenchman well, despite the strange flat-chested look. Even Sandman himself had given his approval on the outfit, commenting that Glass Joe looked 'very pretty in it'. Despite his fairly muscled physique, he had fitted that maid dress very well indeed. Had Glass Joe actually taken the time to give himself the illusion of a bosom, perhaps he'd have looked even more-

What was he _thinking_? Von Kaiser shook his head, distracted. He had better things to do than to fantasise; the younger man was injured and ill following his last match, and Von Kaiser was going to visit him at his apartment. He could think about those things later, but now was simply not the time. He stopped by a small shop on the way and bought some fruit - oranges and apples. He had contemplated cooking something for the Frenchman, and would have done so had he known more about the other's favourite foods. God forbid Von Kaiser should ever land himself in an argument about food with a Frenchman!

The German sighed and looked down at the piece of paper he held. On it were scribbled directions to Glass Joe's apartment - it would be the first time he would be visitng the other's home, and he wanted to make a good impression. He was feeling fairly ill at ease, although he didn't show it. He found the apartment building after a few minutes, and within moments was stood in front of the door, knocking to be let in.

"It's unlocked," the younger man's soft voice called from within; Von Kaiser hesitated, giving no reply, but then turned the doorknob decisively and went inside. He shut the door behind him as he looked straight ahead, taking in the sight of the place. The apartment was hardly _large_, but spacious enough for one person; the walls had a soft, almost pastel colour scheme of stenciled grey, and Von Kaiser could see that there was a small but well-kept kitchen in the corner with a medium-sized table nearby. The living space held all the essentials - sofa, television, a small coffee table and a clean beige rug in front of it all; when the older man stepped inside for a closer look, he noticed (much to his surprise) that there was a piano against the wall of the living room, just beneath the windows. There were two doors apart from those; Von Kaiser could guess that they led to the bathroom and the bedroom respectively, but they were not of extreme interest to him. Glass Joe was nowhere to be seen; but as the older man took in the clean, fairly well organized apartment (marvelling at the sight), he heard the younger man's voice calling his name from within one of the doors.

Von Kaiser approached and cautiously leaned against the door. "_Guten Tag_. Can I come in, Joseph?"

"_Bonjour_, Monsieur. Please do."

Pushing open the door, Von Kaiser found himself even more pleasantly surprised than before. This room was darkened due to the closed curtains; but he could see that it had a lighter colour scheme of pale blue, and despite being a rather plain room, radiated a sort of homeliness. A desk stood by the corner, two bookcases along the wall, a closet tucked along the back of the room - and then there was the bed upon which the Frenchman was lying down, smiling at the older man.

"_Merci__ d'__ê__tre venu_," Glass Joe said softly, beckoning Von Kaiser closer to him. "thank you very much for coming to see me."

"There is no need to thank me," the German replied, keeping his voice neutral. "would you like me to draw the curtains?" He received a nod in reply, and drew back the curtains, allowing the December sun to filter into the room; it wasn't a lot, and illuminated the place with a frosty light, but at least he could see everything more clearly. The younger man was more visible now; he was bandaged on the shoulder and torso, and was wearing a loose, clean and mostly unbuttoned shirt. His soft chocolate-brown eyes fixed upon the other's face, and Von Kaiser was suddenly aware of how intense that gaze was; clearing his throat to regain his composure, the German sat down on a chair next to the bed.

Glass Joe smiled. "So do you like my apartment?"

"It's very nice," the older man replied quietly. This was about as elaborate as a compliment from Von Kaiser could be, and Glass Joe was content with that. "are you feeling better from your last match?"

"I still hurt a little," the Frenchman said. "but apart from that, I am all right."

Von Kaiser's eyes softened slightly, looking over at Glass Joe's bandages with concern. This was hardly new with the younger man, for being beaten up was something that happened all too often - but now that he was seeing him up close, thin and temporarily bedridden, he was feeling a fairly strong sense of sympathy that he had never quite felt before. "I've brought some fruit. Would you like some?"

"_S'il vous plait_."

* * *

Telling Glass Joe about his feelings was hard. But Von Kaiser, after making some small talk, had decided that there would be not a better time to tell the younger man; any other time might be too late, and by then perhaps his feelings would have changed into something different. He wanted to make everything clear _now_.

"Joseph, I have something to tell you."

And thus he sat there for an hour, telling Glass Joe everything. It was the longest talk he'd ever initiated with the younger man in all those years. He put aside his pride for that hour and just talked about how he felt, how confused he was, and his emotions towards the Frenchman. And Glass Joe listened closely, interrupting now and then to ask something, but otherwise remaining silent. When everything had been said, Von Kaiser leant back and waited to be judged.

What he heard next was not what he had been expecting.

"I was wondering when you were going to tell me, Monsieur," the Frenchman murmured with a smile, his eyes considerably brighter. "I wasn't quite sure if you felt that way towards me for a long time. _Mon Dieu_, the days I spent wondering!"

"_Warten_," the older man cut in swiftly, frowning lightly. "I... don't understand. What do you mean?"

"It means, Monsieur, that I owe you an explanation - what I've been feeling about the entire situation. It will not be long, I promise."

Glass Joe took a deep breath before he launched into his tale. "We've been in the WVBA for thirteen years now, Monsieur. And sometime during the recent years, I had begun to notice that someone was observing me when I was resting. _C'etait vous_, _bien sûr_," he nodded towards Von Kaiser. "it didn't take long for me to realize that you were the one leaving behind supplies for me to find. For a long time, I didn't understand why you were doing it, nor why we carried on playing this_ game _- we've been boxing together for so long and yet we don't know all that much about each other, _non_? But I have always appreciated what you've been doing for me, Monsieur."

"Eventually I decided that because you meant no harm, questioning your actions would not change anything. I let everything be, and last week was indeed the first time I have ever talked to you about this. But that doesn't mean I wasn't taking notice of my own self and what I was feeling towards you - of course not! I came to appreciate you, Monsieur. For what you do for me, for your bravery in the ring - everything. I respected you before, but then I appreciated you - and then before I quite realized what was happening, I was looking forward to seeing you every day and in every situation. I've never quite had the chance nor the courage to start a conversation about this, but now..."

Von Kaiser sat silently for a while, contemplating this information; but eventually, he raised his head and smiled lightly. "I take it that we share the same feelings, Joseph. Will you accept mine?"

"Could we take it one day at a time?"

"Of course."

"I shall. But only if you feed me those orange slices first," Glass Joe laughed, a wide grin on his face. Von Kaiser instantly drew back, his expression changing from one of relief to one of utter confusion; _feeding_ Glass Joe? What kind of condition was that? And God forbid he ever show that level of softness in front of the Frenchman!

However, within seconds, he weakened and reluctantly reached for a slice of orange. He figured that it wouldn't hurt this once, for there was no one in the house apart from him and Glass Joe - in other words, no other boxer would know about it. Von Kaiser had to admit that he didn't see too much problem with picking up a slice of fruit and holding it up to another person's mouth, especially if there was no one watching. He leaned forwards and held up the orange slice, waiting for Glass Joe to take it; this the latter did by bending his head and biting delicately into the orange. Von Kaiser tried to to withdraw his hand - but was admittedly too fixated on the other's face to do so. The Frenchman nibbled the slice in dainty bites, even licking the tip of the German's finger to get all the juice - the older man inhaled sharply at the sensation and pulled back, feeling an unwanted blush rising in his cheeks.

"That wasn't so hard, _n'est-ce-pas_?" Glass Joe laughed. "Ah,_vôtre visage_!"

Von Kaiser rolled his eyes, trying his hardest to avoid snapping at the younger man; he turned his face away, hiding his blush (which was refusing to go away, annoyingly enough). But he was forced to turn back when Glass Joe placed a gentle hand under his chin and turned the older man's face towards him again.

"I was only teasing, Monsieur," he said softly, a smile still playing over his lips. "I can most definitely see now that your feelings are true."

The older man raised an eyebrow skeptically, but there was a new mischievous glint to his eyes. "Joseph, I would hardly say that your decision was _reliable_."

"Eh? _Pourquoi_?"

"You have only seen one part of what I could do for you, and you are already making hasty decisions about me," Von Kaiser replied, very much amused. "and it wasn't the best example either. I could do so much more for you - would you like me to demonstrate?"

And demonstrate it he did, only a minute after he'd received a nod from the other man. Their first kiss turned out fine after all, despite there being little to no prior warning beforehand; but Glass Joe was satisfied with his judgement, Von Kaiser had demonstrated a part of his feelings, and things could go from there.

After that fateful day, and after the two had settled somewhat into being more than_ just _acquaintances, Glass Joe still paid some homage to the event that had brought them together. He made a habit of sitting next to Von Kaiser while they were dining together, snuggling into his shoulder in the most affectionate ways possible and attempting to feed him various little bits. He accepted every time when they were in private, but the truth was that the Frenchman did it far more often when they were in public. Perhaps Glass Joe just wanted to tease him. But even amongst the wolf-whistles given to them by the surrounding boxers and the stares they received from other people, it was too difficult to try to resist the younger man.

* * *

Hands roamed every place they could reach, fingers caressing, stroking, grasping with increasingly desperate need. They touched and brushed over familiar curves and the contours of their muscles; tongues darted out hungrily to lick, to taste, their labored breath mingling in the otherwise-silent room. Their bodies intertwined on the bed, tangling between the sheets, both men twisting around to gain the most access to their partner; their clothes were already lying scattered around on the floor. Soft moans and cries eventually began to accompany their passionate struggle as the older man pinned the other down and began to place biting kisses all the way down his skin, bruising his lover, marking the Frenchman as his own. Von Kaiser smiled to himself in the dark, listening to Glass Joe panting underneath him, the other's body writhing pleasantly against his; he wanted to hear more, to feel more, and set about kissing the younger man eagerly. What they did was sometimes slow and peaceful, sometimes rough and wild, but every time it was far more sensual than either of them could ever have imagined.

It was strange, he had to admit, just how different from the norm they were during those times. Both Glass Joe and Von Kaiser were calm and self-composed by day; all that went straight out of the window by night, when they would cast aside their usual selves and let their passion take over. The two acted very much like their normal selves back in the WVBA - the only difference being that they had utterly refused to fight one another - but when they were over at each other's homes, it was a different story. The older man had been pleasantly surprised when he'd first seen the Frenchman in such a state - for being fairly unexperienced, Glass Joe was eager and willing to learn. Once they had spent a few weeks' worth of nights together, Von Kaiser had found the younger man to be a very good lover, sometimes even taking lead; perhaps it was in his blood. Either way, the German was far from complaining. They had known, boxed alongside, and had desired one another for a long time - and they weren't going to let any more time pass by them. That was absolutely clear.

And that was the way it was. Glass Joe would lie in bed at night, all of his delicate, gorgeous body exposed only to the older man. The Frenchman would moan, cry out and whimper accordingly depending on what Von Kaiser was doing to him, and it was a most adorable sight in the older man's eyes. (The younger man made the most _interesting_ noises.) The look in his eyes at night was incredibly intense - by day, Glass Joe's eyes were often smiling yet slightly dull and distant. But at night, they were bright and wide with passion; coupled with the sweet moans and cries that he made when they were making love, it made the younger man absolutely perfect. Afterwards, Glass Joe would cuddle up to his lover, rest his head upon the other's chest, smile and blush sweetly - and then he would be asleep, nuzzling into Von Kaiser's arms. The other would stay awake for extended periods of time, watching his younger partner - it was adorable, and he couldn't deny it.

"Mmm... Joseph, you are beautiful." Von Kaiser had whispered one night. _And cute_, he thought, but he would never let the word slip. He caressed the other's hair as they lay together in bed, moonlight shining through the window, their heated bodies cooling down.

"So are you, Monsieur."

"I'm not," the older man said quietly, sinking further into the pillows, his caress stopping for a moment. "you know I was scarred in the _Bundeswehr_. I would hardly call that beautiful."

Glass Joe fell silent for a moment, glancing down the German boxer's body. Von Kaiser had once been involved in an accidental explosion whilst performing his duties; he had been blinded for two days as a result, received cuts to the torso, and his legs had been embedded with shrapnel. He had recovered fully, but the scars had remained ever since; and this was partly the reason why he only ever wore long trousers when boxing.

"You are beautiful to me," the Frenchman finally whispered, running his fingers over the scars. "I don't care about those. I care about you."

"_Mein Gott_, such assurance! Bless you, Joseph."

Although that incident had been closed like that, it was not to say the German was unappreciative. The exact opposite, in fact - he was always marvelling at how _happy_ his life had gotten since they had become lovers. Glass Joe would curl up on the sofa with him, fall asleep in his arms, and kiss his cheek now and then. The Frenchman could be surprisingly keen, Von Kaiser had realised quickly; quite often he would wake up in the morning to the feel of the other's tongue on the back of his shoulder, and when they were alone in the changing rooms, Glass Joe would steal kisses and caresses from him. He sometimes would also push down the the older man's suspenders, unbutton his shirt, and kiss the man just beneath his shoulderblade. And of course, much to his gratitude, Glass Joe didn't mind that he was scarred from his military years. He had kissed every one of the scars and had repeatedly assured the older man that it was all right, that he was loved, and the German was grateful for that.

They learnt more about each other during those weeks and months together than they had ever done in years of having known one another. Von Kaiser told the younger man about his military past, how he had been traumatized for a long time after seeing missions go horribly wrong, and the fears he had held for a long time. Glass Joe told the other about his lonely, isolated past life, and how he was glad to finally have someone by his side after more than three decades of waiting. They told each other their real names, secrets being whispered in the dark of the night whilst they were in bed together; secrets no one else would ever know and would never be said to anyone else.

Figuring out why the Frenchman was so cute was no longer Von Kaiser's priority. He now had the younger man by his side, and he could observe him as much as he wished - and that was honestly the best thing he could have hoped for.

* * *

"Monsieur," the Frenchman whispered as they lay in bed together one night, his voice still rather thick with lust. "... that was wonderful, Monsieur..."

Von Kaiser smiled. "I'm glad you thought so, Joseph."

"_Ich liebe dich_," Glass Joe whispered in his still too sweet-sounding, smooth-accented German; he had been learning recently. Von Kaiser hid a smile - it was wonderful, hearing his lover speak in a foreign tongue just for him. The rougher, hoarse sounds of German were often lost in the other's soft, lilting tone, but the older man didn't at all mind. "_du bist der einzige __f__ü__r mich_, _mein S__ü__ßer... Ich_-"

Von Kaiser cut him off with an appreciative kiss, gently rolling on top of the Frenchman on the process. He broke the kiss and grinned, hearing the other's soft whimper of disappointment upon feeling the older man's lips leave his own.

"_Je t'aime_," the German whispered back. No matter what Glass Joe said, or how it was said, he didn't care - his answer would always be the same.

That was enough.


	15. 15: View From the Window

**Author's Note:** A month after an update, here I am again! I suppose this counts as 'regular' of sorts, but I'm glad I've managed to finish this. This one was a bit of a pain to write simply because I was basing this entire tale around a single line from a poem. The poem's called 'Dockery and Son' by Philip Larkin, and I have an AS-level exam to write on this poet in a few days. I've been studying him a bit too much. We've been studying him all year, and because of the fact that I identify with a lot of his poems, I think some of the nihilistic and 'futility of living' message has been incorporated into my writings. I'm not sure this is a good thing - angst and contemplation have always been my favourite subjects to write about, but those don't make a story better than anything else. I can't do cheerful that well. x.x

Anyhoos, this is a first-person story told in the present tense. I've not done this with Punch-Out! characters before, so it's a new experiment. It's from Glass Joe's POV, regarding Don Flamenco and one afternoon in a cafe. This is set before Title Defense Don Flamenco and features darker!Don, but he's not too bad. The theme is rather abstract, but a few words should help you in reading this otherwise hardly-comprehensible piece - the key words are 'boredom' 'hasty' and 'age'. It shows an insight into Glass Joe's thoughts and feelings when confronted with the younger, inevitably more impatient Don Flamenco.

Slash? Implied unsurely, but Glass Joe's narrative is better not completely trusted. There is a mentor-student relationship, though, but keep in mind nothing happens.

* * *

_J'ai trente-huit ans, et il a vingt-trois ans_. I am thirty-eight and he is twenty-three - _non_, this only makes for an awkward start. Let us start again - I am _only_ thirty-eight and he is _already_ twenty-three. This is better.

He and I are friends, and little more. I am unmarried and single, and currently not pursuing any relationship; he once had a beautiful _petit-amie_ called Carmen, but when he was defeated by Little Mac, she left him. He has become quieter then, more determined, and since that match has been training incredibly hard. It seems to me that this has lent a far more _suave_ quality to his mannerisms - he currently has six women who clamour around him, but I doubt he is planning on a full relationship with any of them. He is still a ladies' man, however, and he flirts and arranges dates with them all on weekends. But at least once a month, he spends a Sunday with me - perhaps this too counts as a sort of 'date', but strictly in an unromantic way.

He was born twenty-three years ago. At that time I was fifteen years old, experienced with solitude and yet still too young to understand it fully; I was living in Paris then, and was thinking of a career in writing. _Le temps passe vite, n'est-ce pas? _How things have changed since then!

But that is not the point. What matters is that he was born then, twenty-three years ago. That I can be so close with someone so young, therefore, is a concept I have not considered until very recently - although this has been going on for a couple of years. It is an awkward concept - something that feels vaguely distant and absurd, yet completely undeniable. I do not feel for him that way, and I strongly doubt he does, but we are still very close friends - closer than either of us may find comfortable, once we take a closer look at what our relationship has become.

Yet, truly, it isn't as if I have never heard of, or seen, fairly older people engaging in relationships with younger men or women. "_Ma petite amie (ou ami) est tres ennuyeux_," they say, "their way of thinking is far too immature for us, and their responses are always too plain for my taste."

And even despite all that, they insist on dating those younger ones and bestowing expensive gifts on them. Does that mean they go out seeking exclusively for interesting persons? I believe not; I rather prefer to believe that their plainness is what is attractive about them. Those people who date youths are playing a strange sort of mental game - getting themselves absolutely drenched in boredom, and yet trying their hardest not to let the same happen to their _petite amies_. At least, to me, it feels that way.

To be perfectly honest, this is not limited to_ those _people. I feel that nine out of ten youths anywhere are 'plain' or otherwise 'boring'. But of course they don't know that themselves. They are young, good-looking, and full of curiosity; boredom is not something they feel is associated to them.

_Mon Dieu!_

But this does not mean I do not cherish youth. Rather, I'm grateful for the presence of younger boxers in the Association, and I do look upon fondly at young couples passing by when I'm out for a walk. I do not hate nor dislike young men and women. They bring me memories of that time when I myself was young, turbulent _et ennuyeux_, and although I have no experience in romance - in retrospect they are not bad memories at all.

What else can I say? That is a pleasant thing to think about sometimes. Back then, we - people like myself and Monsieur Von Kaiser - were just as handsome and charming as we used to be plain and dull; that came without choice. It was a delicate, beautiful balance.

I must assure this point: my friend does not at all bore me. I do not think this relationship is anything more than friendship - whether he thinks the same, however, is a different matter.

* * *

"When is your next match against Little Mac?" I ask. Today is indeed a Sunday, and after a train trip to a quiet town, we are sitting in a small cafe for lunch. I planned the trip so that he could relax after a hard week's training - but I'm not sure whether it's helping at all. He looks down thoughtfully, his expression becoming clouded at the mention of the boy's name.

"Next week, Friday afternoon," he responds flatly. "and I'll make sure it will be the last match he and I will ever fight against. If possible, the last match he will ever fight - for when I'm done with him..."

Donato needs to say no more. Because of his defeat at the hands of Little Mac he has lost Carmen, his one true love; his fame hasn't declined, as evidenced by the girls clamouring around him, but what he lost can never be replaced by them. I understand this, but can't help but wonder if he truly is thinking straight. Little Mac is no formidable opponent, and so far he has defended his title seven times. We from the Minor Circuit didn't stand a chance, three from the Major Circuit also suffered crushing defeats - and if events turn out in a similar manner, my friend will mark the end of the Major Circuit challengers.

"_Tu dois fais attention_," I say. "think carefully, Donato. Little Mac is not just a boy. Defeating him will take far more than just training."

He laughs, but the laugh has no mirth within it. "I know that perfectly. But I am armed with something else apart from the training I've done - the pain of losing a loved one like this. If defeating Little Mac is the only way I can win back my Carmen, and by doing so will restore the honor of everyone else - especially yours, Señor... I am willing to try a hundred times."

He knows pain. What he doesn't know, however, is how to deal with it.

Donato's victory could potentially destroy Little Mac in return, yes. But the chances of him doing so are very low. The boy has far less to lose than Donato has - he has the belt, but he could regain it after a defeat. Little Mac has not experienced love yet, so he cannot be compared to Donato when it comes to that. I have no doubt my friend will fight like he has never fought before. But what is that going to achieve? What if Carmen does not return to him? Or what if he loses the title to someone else? It seems he has never thought about what Carmen's departure signifies about her personality - would she have left had she truly loved him? Donato's motivations to win the title seem rather hasty to me; I fear that he is rushing into a match for the sake of restoring his damaged reputation and trying to get Carmen back, rather than a genuine will to fight the boy as a worthy opponent (as I did).

I fear too much. I am past the hasty, fast-paced stage of life and now have progressed to thinking carefully about everything I do; sometimes to a paranoid degree. Perhaps I must have more faith. Either way this isn't helping him relax - but before I can, he changes the subject entirely.

"Have you ever wanted to go back to being an eighteen-year old, Señor? Or even twenty-three?"

I look up from stirring my coffee at the question. Donato is staring at me, his gaze fixed on my face; he seems unusually_ intense _today, for some reason, even though we are not discussing boxing any longer.

"What makes you ask that, Donato?"

"I was just curious," he replies quietly, still staring at me intently. His dark brown eyes seem brighter than they have been in weeks. "I wondered what your plans were fifteen years ago, what you thought of the world, and... what you were doing at the time. And whether you'd ever want to go back. Did you love anyone as I love Carmen? Or did you have a long-time career in mind?"

I mull over this for a while. When I was twenty-three, I was in university and leading a fairly chaotic life, working numerous jobs and trying to discover my own passions and ambitions. I had given up on the idea of a career in writing by then, for the simple reason that I didn't think I could do well enough to make a living out of it. Twenty-three was also a time when I suffered from severe pneumonia; it weakened me significantly for life, I believe. But all of that is not important to Donato; what is important is that twenty-three, as young as I were, is one age I would not like to revisit.

"_Non_. I wouldn't," I reply. "I wouldn't want to go back. No matter how much anyone pays me, no matter what kind of things are promised - twenty-three is not an age I would like to return to."

I do not think Donato comprehends me fully.

"You... truly wouldn't?"

"Not at all."

He doesn't seem to understand fully, but doesn't let it show - he just leans forwards slightly. "Why?"

I smile and take a sip of my coffee. It's just right, with a rich smooth scent - I really must visit this cafe again sometime. "I prefer who I am now, that is all."

This is the truth and nothing more. But I am well aware of how this sounds to Donato; no one in the WVBA knows of my past. Surely to him, my current state is far from healthy - I never win my matches, and I am forever nursing bruises and cuts. But the pain and the thrill of being in the ring is precisely the reason I can go on - it reminds me that I am alive - thus my current life is far more preferable than what I had in the past. I am not about to explain all that to him; it will either be too much of a boring story to tell, or one that provokes sympathy from him, and I do not wish for either to happen.

"I find that hard to believe," he finally says, stirring his coffee and picking up a small chocolate _petit-four_ from his plate. Neither of us eat too much, but he appreciates sweet foods more than he would like to admit - this is a secret he has only told me.

"It may be so, but please try to understand. I truly feel that way."

A slow, thoughtful 'hmm' follows this. "But youth is a celebrated thing."

"That is true."

He bites lightly into the _petit-four_ once, absent-mindedly chewing on it.

"So why prefer now?"

"Once is enough, Donato."

"I haven't had enough of youth yet, Señor."

"You're only twenty-three, that's all."

He does not reply to this except with a small 'hmm', and finishes off the_ petit-four_. Inwardly I correct myself: _and you are already twenty-three_. Donato briefly turns to address a nearby waiter, asking for more coffee; and I stare out the window. It is raining slightly, but the sun is still shining, and because of that I do not think that this rain will last.

The waiter leaves, and he turns back to me again. "So what things did you think about when you were twenty-three, Señor?"

"About what my purpose in life was," I answer with a smile. He tilts his head to the side, looking questioning; this is the most interested reaction I've been able to get out on my own since Little Mac defeated him. "and before you ask me anything _de plus culott__é_-I've not had experiences in love or romance."

"But you come from a nation of lovers," he protests gently. "don't tell me that nothing came of it?"

I laugh. "I was never very interested in romance in general. Far too busy trying to find myself."

He keeps on gazing at me with unconcealed interest; I don't suppose that the concept of having to find oneself is familiar to him, for he has had a clear occupation and motive in mind ever since his teenage years. He was fourteen when he participated in his first_ corrida_; the most injury he has ever sustained from a bull was a sprained shoulder and a light graze on his back. Donato was very lucky that way, I believe - he has no need of having to go through confusions and difficult decisions at this point in his life. Things were very different when I myself was twenty-three.

Silence sets in for a minute before he asks: "Did you succeed eventually, Señor?"

I let this question go unanswered; the answer would be a basic 'yes', but Donato has no clue as to just how long it took me to even reach a conclusion on finding myself. That journey started long before I was twenty-three, and I am still putting together some pieces - he does not know that, and I can't tell him. I do not wish to bore him or seem like I am looking for sympathy. I know it will not be easy for him to hear the full story as to how I became the person I am now, for it is a long and confusing tale and will likely conflict his opinions about me. What would have been an awkward silence, however, is averted when he smiles at me, and (much to my surprise) squeezes my hand gently for a few seconds.

"I understand if you have no wish to talk about it, Señor. I was just curious. It's just that you're always so wise - and I do wonder where you got such wisdom from..."

How can I reply to this with anything but a nod? No comments are necessary from my part with a reason like that. I can still feel the warmth from his hand, however, and that gives me a not-unpleasant and yet vaguely uncomfortable feeling. I look away and out of the window, and am spared from further reply as the waiter arrives with more coffee. Donato thanks him and pours himself a new cup, offering me more as well, and I accept.

The rain has stopped outside.

* * *

Sometimes, I do wonder what it will be like to go back to being young. I was not an exception to being tempted by what youth promises; but I never truly carried out any of them, being too busy and desperate to figure out a means of living. I do wonder what might have been - perhaps I could have engaged in romance. Perhaps I could have gotten involved with something that was not the WVBA. Perhaps, I could have even taken up writing as a form of earning; who knows? By changing some things in my past, I could very well have guaranteed myself a different future.

But I am already thirty-eight years old. I tire far more easily than I did fifteen years ago, and if by chance I miss a few days of training, it takes at least a fortnight of effort to get myself back in shape. I cannot return back fifteen years. Isn't that the truth?

Every morning, I get up, do some stretches, drink a cup of coffee and listen to some music. This has been a part of my routine for a full decade - sometimes, when I am listening to music and petting Musette, I feel as if my life has been one long train journey. The scenery only ever changes very slightly, and throughout very long periods of time. The view steadily becomes more beautiful and lush the more I look out; but despite it being so, it just seems to me that the past landscapes, ones inferior to the one I am currently seeing, were far more exciting and promising. This is strange, for I distantly seem to recall finding those views uninteresting and bland when I was younger and now I am nostalgic for them.

And very few else changes throughout this journey. Occasionally there are people sitting near me - some sit closer to me, some drift away, and all eventually disembark no matter how long it may take. Currently the one who has stayed near me the longest is Monsieur Von Kaiser, for he has been my friend for a full decade. But inching closer, closer than I'm comfortable with, is a young matador of twenty-three who knows precious little of how life works; and this, to me, is a rather saddening thing. He is young and prioritizes his passion and love for enjoyment more than anything else. This is not a bad thing at all, but given how he has reacted to his defeat by Little Mac recently, I fear that he underestimates certain aspects of life far too much. Again, this is not abnormal - Donato is young, easily bored and curious - but I do not wish to see him any more depressed and hurt as a result. The only thing I can do is to ease his boredom, comfort him when he is upset, and hope that he will not sink into despair he is not experienced enough to recover from.

We take our seats on the train, ready to return. I am seated by the window, and he by the aisle.

"Would you like to switch seats?" I ask.

He smiles at me, and nods gratefully. "_Muchas gracias_. It's very kind of you."

_Non_, I think to myself with a sad smile. _Non_, it is not being kind. Life is first boredom, and then fear; I'm simply far more accustomed to boredom than you are, Donato. That is simply all.


	16. 16: Obligatory Kitten Chapter

**Author's Note: **This thing was last updated on the _4th of June 2010_. Just four more days and this would have been in hiatus for a grand total of a year. I'm so ashamed. (weeps) I've been so busy with the Alphabet series and LIFE in general I don't even. O.o

Long overdue for an _'Obligatory X Chapter', _this was. And I'm giving you one here. This one is really not that much to speak of, but it's an update; it's a Glass Joe piece and takes place eight years prior to the events of the game. It details two evenings in the Frenchman's life when he found his cat, Musette. Very quiet and fluffy fic. I have given it the distinction of an _Obligatory X Chapter _because it probably has even less to do with Punch-Out! than all of the crazy pairing stuff I do. But because it is still a very important personality defining moment for Joe (in my head at least), it gets a chapter here. Also, no pairings at all. I think we can all do with Punch-Out! from me that deals with no pairings whatsoever. xDDD

Reading 'Solitude' is not necessary but recommended for this piece. The same goes for the drabble 'Reflection'. At the time of writing the chronology is: '_Obligatory Kitten Chapter' _- '_Solitude_' - _'Reflection', _with Glass Joe aging a few years with each piece.

The final 'Alphabet' is coming soon. Meanwhile, read on.

* * *

Chilly November evenings were not ideal times to walk around, especially in the middle of New York City. People were walking quickly, hands in their pockets, bent over in an attempt to protect themselves from the wind; the majority of the pedestrians didn't seem to care where they crossed the roads, as long as they got to their destination as soon as possible. Rush hour was over, with significantly less people driving on the roads, but that hardly meant that it wasn't dangerous to cross the streets; however, this was the time of the day where things like that didn't matter to most people.

It certainly didn't matter to a French boxer called Glass Joe.

The man walked briskly along the pavement, his hands in his pockets, staring directly in front of him. He looked completely unconcerned, lazy almost, and yet with a clear destination in mind - people stared at him as he walked by, sensing a strange air around the Frenchman that they couldn't actually comprehend. There was something about him that was slightly - _unnatural_.

This was a lot to do with the fact that Glass Joe lacked emotion. He walked along, staring ahead, very little expression on his face; once a car skidded close to the pavement next to him, the driver swearing and yelling in response, but Glass Joe simply stopped and looked at the man until he drove away. He did not speak nor change his expression, and just carried on walking. He simply didn't seem to care.

Stars were fully out now, and the very last of the sunset had long gone. Glass Joe was now walking in the dark towards his apartment - never showing an ounce of fear, but he was slightly tensed in case anything happened. He caught sight of the building about a hundred metres away, and was momentarily tempted to quicken his pace; but he didn't do so, and kept to his original stride. He wasn't in that much hurry, and besides, he didn't want to seem as if he were running away from something. Gangs frequented this area after dark, and the last thing he wanted was a confrontation.

Little did he know that this one decision would change his life.

As he walked along, he picked up a distinct rustling to his right. He thought little of it, dismissing it as little more than a random noise, but then stopped dead in his tracks as he picked up another sound from the same direction; something that sounded like a soft, whimpering cry. Glass Joe looked over, a small amount of confusion showing on his face, at the source of the sound. He stood there for a while, listening out for that sound; when he had stood there for a couple of minutes, he dismissed it as nothing, and turned to leave. He was quite tired and hungry; his whole body was aching, and as empty and silent his apartment was, he wanted nothing more than to go back and have a long rest.

And then the sound came again, clearer this time, plaintive and pitiful.

He most definitely couldn't ignore it now. Glass Joe listened more carefully, pacing around in a slow, deliberate circle, frowning very slightly - was he truly hearing things? But - no, there was the sound again! He pinpointed roughly where the sound had come from, and walked a few steps in that direction, looking down at the ground in case he missed anything (it was getting darker rapidly). Not more than six or so steps later, he caught sight of something lying on the ground, and bent down to investigate.

It was a cardboard box, barely large enough to carry in his arms; and when he tapped it lightly, something inside the box made that sound again.

Glass Joe picked up the box carefully and brought it close underneath a street-light. There was no-one nearby, and he was in a fairly quiet place, ensuring that his investigation would go unnoticed. He knelt down and reached for the flaps of the box (noting how flimsy they were), opened it up - and looked.

A small kitten was sitting in the box, nestled between some pieces of fabric. Its paws were folded delicately underneath its body, and as the box was opened it looked up at the Frenchman; soon it dropped its gaze again, meowing softly to itself. It didn't plead, not was it scared of him in any way - it just wanted to be saved, and that was all. Glass Joe stared at the tiny kitten for a long time, not really taking any of it in - he simply couldn't believe what he was seeing. Was he, after a long day of pain and exhaustion, just hallucinating all of this? The Frenchman reached out with a trembling hand, and gingerly touched the coat of the kitten. The soft, silky sensation of the fur convinced him that he was indeed face to face with a real kitten; still partly in disbelief (now not over the kitten's existence, but the conditions that it had been put in), he checked the pieces of fabric that the creature was nestled in. They were mostly just small scraps, but he found a thin blue handkerchief inside that probably had served as a woefully inadequate blanket for the kitten. There was no sign of food, water or any other source of warmth in the box.

Glass Joe was not a sympathetic person. At this point in life, he was thirty years old with only a lonely, unhappy past stretching behind him, and no sign of improvement had so far been made to this arrangement. He was never rebellious, nor even had the faintest traces of being a bad person - it was just that he lacked empathy and was indifferent to all creatures, simply because he had forgotten how to love. He had never been taught, nor had been shown much of it - and the childish devotion and care he had once possessed as a boy had long since dissipated. So it would have been an exaggeration to say that he was completely overwhelmed and moved by this abandoned little kitten; however, it would have also been a massive lie to say that he cared none for the creature. It had all been purely - unexpected.

Still trembling, he set down his bag on the ground, this time gently picking up the little kitten in his hands. Although his hands were hardly large, the kitten was small enough to fit in them, mewling very softly as it was picked up; he could feel every rib, the thin and bedraggled coat, and the shallow pumping of the creature's heart through his skin. And oh, the kitten was so cold! Glass Joe hadn't ever believed that a living being could be so cold and be alive, but he was doubting it now as he examined the kitten.

Quite surprisingly, after the initial mewl and some squirming, the kitten settled down in his hands and sat there quietly. The Frenchman assumed that the kitten was one of a litter from a housecat, judging by the way it hardly struggled; and he also supposed that it was exhausted, hungry and nearly dying of hypothermia. He stood up, picked up his bag and cradled the creature in his arms, throwing a look of disgust towards the cardboard box - the kitten curled up in his chest, snuggling into the warmth, steadying itself with a small paw.

He had to hurry. The kitten was so little - still holding the tiny creature close, he quickened his pace, jogging lightly to the direction of his apartment.

* * *

Lights were flicked hurriedly on as the Frenchman unlocked the door and shoved the door shut; he rushed inside, settling the shivering kitten on the sofa for a few seconds. He had to find something to keep the kitten warm, whatever it may be - and he eventually settled for a fluffy towel from the bathroom. Glass Joe leaned down and wrapped the kitten in the towel until only its head was sticking out, eyes staring at him in part disbelief and part curiosity; he then sat down, put down his bag, held the kitten on his lap and wondered what to do next.

Obviously the kitten needed feeding.

He didn't know what to feed the young kitten, but from its teeth he could roughly guess that it was fully weaned. He couldn't well just give this cat milk from a bottle or canned cat food. And then it occurred to him that he had made some chicken broth the day before - there had been a pinch of salt in it, but nothing else. It had been made to serve as a base for his dinner for that night, but it would provide sustenance for the kitten as it was now - and at that moment, he really didn't have much choice. Glass Joe went to the kitchen and heated up the liquid, and while the broth was simmering he decided to give the kitten a warm bath. There would be about twenty minutes' waiting before the broth was ready - he felt sorry for the hungry kitten, of course, but it wouldn't be too long of a wait.

He filled up the sink partway with warm water. He then gently lowered the kitten in the sink; the creature slid into the water like a block of ice. Despite having been wrapped in the towel, its body was still cold, and it was shivering softly - Glass Joe set about gently washing the kitten's fur, caressing it ever so softly and trying his best not to get water in its eyes or ears. Soon the kitten was no longer shivering, but purring quietly in contentment. The Frenchman talked softly to the kitten all the while, trying to get it to relax, until he decided that the kitten was warmed up and clean; he pulled the creature out of the water and dried it carefully in the towel, careful to dry its fur completely. He eventually began to see a beautiful orange tabby emerging from the folds of the towel, instead of the rather grubby kitten found in a cardboard box - it stood a little unsteadily when Glass Joe took the towel away, mewing quietly for its mother.

He felt pity stirring within him for the first time in years at the sight.

The Frenchman glanced at the kitchen to see if the broth was boiling over - it wasn't, so he took the time to examine the kitten more carefully. He estimated the creature's age to be around seven or eight weeks - but judging by size alone, it looked more like a fortnight-old kitten. But it wasn't scared by him, nor had it put up any resistance at all when it was in contact with the Frenchman; Glass Joe knew too well that wild life would defend itself no matter how weak it might be, so this could only mean that the kitten was somewhat used to being handled from a human home. He guessed that it might have been part of a prize litter, but was abandoned for being a runt. The more he thought about this, the more disgusted he felt for the people who had abandoned the kitten - and he felt increasingly sympathetic towards the little creature, which at present was nuzzling very lightly into his shoulder. He picked up the kitten and left the kitchen, sitting down on the table and examining it more carefully.

The tabby's paws were pink and swollen - perhaps they had been frostbitten by the weather. It certainly wouldn't be surprising. But the kitten, as weak and hungry it was, hobbled over to him and nuzzled him underneath the chin, purring; he rather fancied that the kitten was thankful to him, and smiled at it, petting the soft fur. Now that he had time to look more closely at the creature - it was now in no danger of either succumbing to the cold or hunger - he noticed something rather unusual about the kitten. Its ears were folded delicately forwards like a cap, giving the kitten an owl-like appearance. Its eyes were a light, sparkling shade of green; runt or no runt, this was one fine creature. No doubt about it.

The broth was ready. Leaving the kitten on the table, Glass Joe went to the kitchen and opened the lid of the pot - a smooth, rich scent wafted from the pot, and he nodded to himself. He skimmed the white froth from the top, and poured some broth into a chilled shallow bowl, ensuring that the concoction wouldn't be too hot. Just as a precaution, he took along a spoon to feed the kitten if necessary. But he didn't need to do so, as it turned out - the kitten jumped at the sight of food and tucked in hungrily, lapping furiously at the broth, almost burying its tiny head within the bowl. How long had it gone without any food?

Glass Joe didn't want to think about that; much too morbid. He leaned down and watched the kitten as it licked the bowl clean, thinking about what to do with it.

'Perhaps I could keep it,' he thought almost immediately; although he was exploring a multitude of other options, that wasn't an unpleasant idea at all. He kept that one in mind.

* * *

Nothing much else happened for the rest of that evening; the kitten was fed, Glass Joe also had his dinner, and they went to sleep soon afterwards. The kitten slept on a small basket beneath the Frenchman's bed lined with cotton and an old shirt, and the man had also provided a covered hot water bottle nearby so it wouldn't be cold at night. This gesture was apparently appreciated, as Glass Joe found out in the morning - he awoke from a light, comfortable sleep by the sounds of soft meowing and the sensation that he was being prodded. When he opened his eyes and checked the clock, he found that it was six twenty in the morning; about an hour earlier than he was used to. He looked ahead of him to see the outline of the kitten, staring up at him with its wide green eyes; while it did convince him that the events of the previous evening had genuinely not been a dream, it startled him quite a bit.

"_Bonjour_," he murmured half to himself and half to the kitten as he stared at the little being. He raised a hand to pet its head; the kitten rolled on its back and nibbled lightly on the tip of his finger, grasping at it with its little paws. The Frenchman looked on, rather amused by this playful display - the creature was still a baby after all, he thought to himself, and it was natural that the kitten would want to play. It was more endearing than he wanted to let on - he supposed that, after all, he was already getting quite attached to this little helpless being.

But attachment was one thing and caring for it was quite another. As much as he was tempted to keep the kitten around for longer, he did recognize that at the very least he needed to take the kitten to a vet - he knew next to nothing about caring for cats, and wasn't going to leave things to chance. It was a small life of its own, a life that now depended on him for its future (whether he liked it or not), and by rescuing the little being he had taken on the responsibility. It was lucky he was on a two week break; at least he'd be able to sort something out in that kind of time.

He got up and immediately got to work in heating up more broth for the kitten. While it was on the stove, and while the little creature was amusing itself on the sofa, he called up the WVBA and explained his situation to the Referee - that he knew that he was on vacation, but the kitten had turned up, and he didn't quite know what to do about the creature nor whether he'd have solved the problem before he was meant to return. Of course, the Referee was very understanding and told him to take it easy, take his time, that saving a life came first. (Had it been anyone else in the WVBA, the Referee would not have been as relaxed with them; he knew Glass Joe better than most people and knew that caring for something was a remarkably new development for the man.)

Putting the phone down, the man sighed and ran a hand through his hair, looking at the kitten on the sofa. It had stopped playing by this point, looking back at him curiously and sitting with its paws tucked underneath its body. Could he really take the responsibility for this kitten? He vaguely remembered that when he had been a little boy, before he had truly understood why he had been raised in an orphanage, he had found the company of cats and dogs around the place quite delightful. But even then, that had been _playing_ rather than caring for - and he had spent so long being indifferent to animals and people alike that he couldn't quite be sure of himself.

He went and sat down next to the kitten. It purred and nuzzled into his waist; from this he knew that one way or another, the kitten had chosen him to take care of it.

Glass Joe was surprised at how much he didn't mind this.

* * *

"_Mon Dieu_..."

Glass Joe sighed heavily as he sank into the piano chair. It had been a long day, but he had managed to sort out everything for the kitten, and felt proud of himself for it. He had visited the vet that morning, to receive the good news that whilst the kitten was likely abandoned, it was in very good health. The man had also discovered that the tabby was a Scottish Fold female; when she put on some more weight, they would be able to run more health checks, but for now he had been advised to take the kitten back and provide a comforting home for it.

_Home_ was the right word. A cat bed had been purchased, with plenty of soft blankets and linings inside, and he had put the little creature to sleep in there for the night. His apartment was hardly large, but then he hadn't ever had the joy of having a companion by his side, and there was plenty of room for the cat that the kitten would soon become. The Frenchman looked around - a small pot of newly-planted cat grass was on a windowsill, a litter box in a far corner, a scratching post nearby, and he'd purchased enough food for the kitten for the week. It wouldn't be easy getting used to this arrangement, but he was sure he could manage fine.

Now that all urgent matters had been sorted out, the Frenchman could relax somewhat. He supposed that it was lucky that he'd found the kitten while on a break - in that time, the kitten would probably have settled in and it would be safer to leave her alone during the day. He had been told that Scottish Folds grew very attached to their owners, but didn't mind being left alone for a day or so; somehow he had landed on the perfect companion for him, and he was content with that. Things had a way of working out, he mused to himself, and allowed himself a small smile.

There was just one thing he hadn't settled on - the kitten's name.

He honestly had no idea what to call her. Glass Joe had never been in the habit of naming his possessions, nor had he ever kept a pet before. But that could come later, he supposed - right now it was important that the kitten be kept warm and full, and so far it seemed happy to be with him. Deciding to leave the matter for now, he opened the piano lid and settled his fingers down on the keys. He closed his eyes and searched for the first melody that came into mind; just a couple of pieces and then he would go to bed. He started playing, and was soon absorbed in the sweet mellow sound, his eyes still closed and his lips curving in a smile. Music was the only constant friend he'd ever had - relaxing, beautiful, and eternally accepting.

But soon that opinion would change for ever.

Glass Joe stopped playing for a moment and opened his eyes, dreamily gazing around his living room. Of course, it was plain with a few pieces of furniture within (though by no means a bleak room), but music made it beautiful, painting his world various different shades depending on the mood, giving them the vibrant alive glow that the apartment lacked. But for a moment he didn't notice that he had a guest who had joined him in this brief fantasy; when he glanced down, he found that the orange kitten was there, meowing softly and trying to climb up the legs of the chair to sit closer to him.

His bewilderment lasted only a few seconds. After all, why shouldn't a kitten be allowed to appreciate music? He did feel slightly bad for causing the kitten to wake from a much-needed sleep, but nevertheless noted that she was energetic and wanted to be close to his presence - and he obliged, picking up the kitten and setting it down on his lap.

She purred softly upon being petted, snuggling close to his chest; and then, stretching her lean body, reached out and placed her two little paws on the keys of the piano. The keys were too heavy for her to press down - but Glass Joe, humouring the kitten, picked her up and set her down on the piano fully. She strutted around for a while, producing surprisingly beautiful chords and progressions as she walked up and down, never once showing fear at the loud sounds. The Frenchman stared at her for a while before his face broke into a wide grin; laughing, he petted and stroked her back. This was certainly an artistic kitten, to say the least.

And then it suddenly struck his mind that he could probably incorporate this trait into the kitten's name.

Glass Joe watched her for a while (now she had settled down, her tail curled neatly around her legs, looking around curiously at the still-new surroundings) as he thought about it - the kitten had been attracted to the sound of music, so he decided that she would have a name related to it. But what to name her after? A composer? A musical term? Or even after a piece?

Then it clicked. He recalled a piece from when he had first been learning to play the piano - a Bach piece, called 'Musette'. It was a simple tune, lively and sweet, much like the kitten; with this he made up his mind.

"'_Musette_'," he whispered, picking up the kitten and holding it in his arms; he gave her a kiss on the nose, and she meowed happily. "_dor__é__navant, tu t'appelleras Musette_."


	17. 17: Edgewise

**Author's Note:** Last updated on the 30th of May 2011! It's October now. I guess points for trying? At least I didn't go a full year without updates. x.x

This is supposedly a normal oneshot instead of an Obligatory X Chapter, but personally I'm not sure what's normal about it. It's a pretty dark piece, and as promised months and months before - it's an Aran and Narcis fic! Not a pairing, though. If you wanted to see it that way, I guess you could stretch it enough - but I did not have pairings in mind when I wrote this at all. This took me about a week, which is a lot faster than most fics take me nowadays. I really, really liked writing this one.

I do warn you of OOC-ness, though, especially with Narcis. Aran is the narrator in this one, and both of them are a bit psychotic. Please don't interpret his narrative as a sign that I hate either of them, because I don't hate them at all! x.x It's really just Aran being... crazy Aran. Only not in the funny sense. It's also pretty dialogue-heavy, which I intentionally tried because lately I've been doing a load of descriptions and not much in the way of conversations.

I'm also typing this on my new laptop which is smaller than my previous one and harder to see - but that's mostly because of my eyes. I had laser eye surgery a few weeks back and it feels so weird being able to see without glasses again. Hurts too, if I don't put in eye drops every two hours.

Read on.

* * *

Left hook, block, inhale. Dart about for five seconds. Pause. Uppercut. Exhale.

KO. One, two, three, four, five. Strands of blond hair tousled to almost unrecognizable extent as he gets up, and that's cool. I inhale deeply and stare straight ahead. Focus. Land a hook or five on his smug little face, that'll teach him!

Make the bastard beg on his knees. Cheers and jeers and screams echo through the boxing ring and no matter how many times he shakes his head to throw them off, they just keep on coming. Which is good. Perhaps today I'll be able to beat him up until it satisfies me, because he usually goes down too quickly.

"Goodness, Aran," he mumbles in his usual stuck-up accent and it pisses me off that he's still speaking like a comprehensible human being. I probably should have hit him harder. "can you be any more agg-rah-vay-ting? [sic]"

Idiot.

* * *

"I do hope you won't mind me saying this, Aran, but you are utterly wasted."

"I only had two drinks," it's night and we're the only ones left in the building. One more hour to go before I can get out of here. How did I even get myself into this? "why the hell am I even arguing with you? It's not even your shift tonight, so why don't you bugger off home already?"

Narcis sniffs. "All right, I know you won the match, don't get all uppity with me. And you don't even mean two drinks as in, two glasses. You mean two drinks as in two full bottles of Guinness. Who even drinks _Guinness_ nowadays?"

Jesus Christ. He's like a goddamn wife. Only not good for anything but nagging. He's not even that good at cooking or anything else that wives do. I keep silent and apply some ointment to my bruises; not many of them today. A lucky win.

I have many problems with Narcis Prince. With a name like that you'd have problems with him, too. He's a Brit and he talks too much and he's always smirking with that I'm-so-much-better-than-you-plebs sort of look. Also his hair looks like a bunch of bananas and he talks like a retard. His accent is quite stuck-up and posh, which isn't even what irritates me the most - that's to be expected from a privately schooled man from London, and it doesn't bother me too much. But he has this way of pronouncing long words with a weird drawl and embellishing every syllable with a weird British flourish and it's so annoying I can't even describe it without wanting to tear his throat out. He thinks that makes him sound sophisticated, but really it just makes things more difficult for those who either can't understand him when he's being like that (some of the foreign boxers) or find him obnoxious (every single one of us). He also brushes his hair too much and spends too much time looking into mirrors instead of training.

It's a wonder how I ever managed a friendship with this imbecile in the past, even though it was only for a short while.

He hasn't seen it that way, though. We've officially hated each other for two and a half years, but when we're by ourselves he keeps pestering me. I wish I could only say that his intentions were entirely malicious. But no, sometimes he sits and drinks with me in silence, sometimes tells me about his not-quite-that-glamorous-really life, or maybe fuss over me. All that and insulting me and loathing me in the same breath. I have no idea what the hell he wants. He's even followed me to the night shift today.

Ah well. Fifty minutes left before I can lock up, drop the keys in the box and go home. Fifty minutes before I can get rid of this idiot for a few hours at least.

"What're you going to be up to when you go home?" he pipes up again.

"Sleep, obviously. I'm beat." I really don't know why I keep baiting him by gracing his questions with replies. He raises his eyebrows and looks at me for a moment before taking out a hand mirror and inspecting his face and tidying his hair with one hand. My post-match regrets are going to be staying for a long time, I can see - I won, but in the end I didn't hurt him as much as I wanted to. Ideally I'd have smashed his face in until it was barely recognizable - no, I wouldn't even needed to bother with that much, just enough to break down his arrogance for good and make him stop boxing. But God must have put a recovery stone in him or something because I win most fights I get with him and he just keeps bouncing back within weeks, as handsome and angelic and dumb as a brick as ever.

"You look into that thing way too much," I say. "like some simpering schoolgirl."

"Yes, and I'm gorgeous," he says with a patronizing smirk. God, I just want to put my hands around his beautiful neck and squeeze. "unlike you. Better clean your lip up though, Aran. It's bleeding. At least_ I'm_ not bleeding."

I wouldn't have thought it, but he's right, I sigh and take a tissue, pressing it to my lip; it stings a bit when I lift away the tissue and see it stained with blood. A little bit of healing balm and I'll be all set. Narcis gives his hair a brush here and there, and he suddenly looks almost as handsome and tidied as ever. He turns away and rummages in his bag - and comes up with a can of Red Bull. "Would you like one?" he asks.

"Sure. Hand it over."

He doesn't do this right away. He presses down on the tab, frowns, and crosses the room with the can still in hand; he takes a glass from the sink and pours the contents in there, his back turned to me. When he's done, he comes back with the glass, which he hands over. "I'm sorry about that."

"Narcis, for feck's sake, who the hell drinks Red Bull out of a _glass_."

Narcis sighs. "You have a cut lip, and the can was faulty - the tab doesn't press down properly, look. I've had to tear it off. Surely you see the hazard in that."

"That's because you opened it like a goddamn eejit. The eejit that you are."

But who am I to turn down a free drink? I take the glass and down half of it in one gulp. Tastes a bit strange, but I'm past caring. Gulp the rest down. All the time he's watching me like a hawk and when I slam down the glass he offers another. I refuse because he's creeping me out.

"One would do anyway," he says while smiling and puts the glass away. "you drink way too much alcohol and those so-called energy drinks as it is. Turning into a second Soda Popinski."

"Soda's a great head and you're not, so shut your mouth," This is weird. Things look a bit blurry, somehow. "did you poison my drink again, you sissy little bitch?"

"Aran, for God's sake! Why am I at fault for everything that goes wrong in your life? What makes you think that I'm the per-pay-tray-tor? [sic] Whatever you're feeling now, I'll have you know that it's not my fault."

"What was it this time," a snap of the fingers. "be quick about it."

Narcis thinks for a few seconds, fiddling with a spare bit of fluff on his sweater and chewing his lip. "Quinine, I think," he takes out a bottle and looks at it with a somewhat lost expression on his face. "no, my mistake. Another one of the ben-zo-dia-ze-phines [sic]. Nothing too bad. I must admit that I didn't look too closely, I usually pick up one of the things that Von Kaiser uses to relax injured people in the ring. You've been treated by him before, Aran, he's treated _everyone_ in some way or another. You know it's quite comfy when he gives you one drop at a time and you go out -_ blam!_ - just like a light. Not sure of the dose myself, unfortunately, but I can't imagine that it'll do you much harm!"

Von Kaiser. Ugh. The creepy bastard. What is with me and having creepy bastards around me lately. "Screw Kaiser, the goddamn Nazi maniac he is. Have you seen him when he's bent over breaking ribs of dying people? And you don't belong anywhere near the medical profession, so don't even get into whatever drug you've just put in me will do. Didn't you learn the last few times?"

"It's called CPR. And that's quite enough from you. Why don't you just lie down and go to sleep already, you must be _very tired_. I'll watch over you."

Very clever, but I'm not doing quite that badly yet. I shake my head and dig around in my pocket, taking out a bottle of purple liquid and a heavily crumpled pack of cigarettes. Narcis wrinkles his nose at this - he's genuinely concerned with me smoking or drinking - and tries to snatch the pack away, mumbling some shit about cigarettes being responsible for causing lung cancer and brain damage. It's kind of amusing how much he cares and how much I don't. "No, fuck that, Narcis. Fuck that right in the face. Don't you have your mistress to attend to?"

"You're swearing like a normal person. It is working after all. Though, that really does make me wonder, how in the world are you still standing?"

Open the pack and take out a cancer stick. Light up. He frowns and points at the sign that says that this is a non-smoking environment, and I blow smoke in his face. "Used to try drug cocktails. There aren't many drugs out there that I haven't tried sometime or another. I just don't carry on the habit because I don't like the trips they give me and I'd be in hot water if I was caught with them in the boxing ring. But you want some? Would you like me to get in touch with a dealer?"

Another sniff. "I don't lower myself to such things, Aran. I know very little about medicine, but I'm _fairly_ certain that I put in enough there to drop a stroppy Irishman to his knees for a few hours."

I cough. He's not going to get me that easily. Or so I think, anyway, but the ground is kind of rippling beneath me. Kind of nice and relaxing now but it'll get worse later. This is why I didn't get into drugs in the first place. Goddamn you, Narcis. You dipshit. "Well, you might have been wrong," I say, waving a finger in his general direction. "this, uh, Narcie, this is really good shit. I think I might just lose the next match I get just to have Von Kaiser pour this stuff in me. You can do that, eh? You put in a recommendation for me to him? This is amazing. Wow. Just, uh, where does he even _get_ this crap from."

"Oh my God, Aran. Just shut up and fall over unconscious already," he's not using his weird drawl. This is bad, it means he's being serious as hell. "please? You can do that for me?"

"Our shift is nearly over, Narcie. Why don't we lock up and go for a walk."

"We've still got over half an hour to go before the shift is over," he says, and he actually looks so angelic and patient that it sort of makes me feel bad. To get rid of the feeling I snatch the bottle of purple liquid from the table and empty it in one long swig - one of Soda's special brews that he slipped to me. He gives it to me whenever I'm depressed and it makes my blood flow faster and my head clearer. As soon as I'm finished with the bottle I realise that this was probably not the best thing to do when I've also consumed what seems essentially like a date rape drug before it.

I feel really dizzy. Damn it. I try to sit down on the bench, but instead I just topple forwards with a groan and land on the floor with a thump, the cigarette snuffed out in the process. Narcis stands up in response; I think I see a hopeful look on his face. It just makes me more determined to stay awake.

"Disappointed?"

"Somewhat," he says with a shrug, and sits back down. "I can wait, though. Want anything to eat in the meantime? More Red Bull? I've got a flask of ale too, somewhere. Just for you."

"Ale, schmale. I want Guinness."

"Nobody drinks Guinness nowadays, Aran. I think we went over this already."

"Then I'm a nobody. Get me some fucking stout."

"I don't touch that filth. It's so _common_."

"Jackass."

"That's no way to call your former friend!" for a moment he looks really upset. Like he has any right to, which he doesn't. "why do you have to be so mean to me?"

"Because you keep pulling shit like this on me all the time. And please, uh, try to keep the shameful fact that we were ever friends out of this conversation. Why are you even doing this again?"

Narcis looks at me, his bruised jaw shining a grotesque shade of purple in the light. "Isn't that obvious? I'm going to ruin your career. I didn't want to resort to those methods, but you've hurt my beautiful, beautiful face for years now - probably worse today than ever before - and I've had enough, really. You'd know by this point, seeing as this isn't my first time drugging you. I honestly _didn't_ think you'd fall for the free drink trick again. You think you're so special, but really you're nothing but a cheating liar. You think I didn't know about your horseshoes and records of bribery from the higher-ups? I mean, _horseshoes_ in your boxing gloves? I've never understood why the WVBA tolerated you for so long."

"You say that every time." I reply while stretching my body and rubbing my forehead. "I'm heartily sick of it. This crap of yours. Seriously. Cut it out. I'm so sick of waking up cold and soaked in dew in some filthy alleyway. What are you going to do about it, anyway? You've known for ages and yet nothing's ever gotten done."

Narcis smiles at me; it's a surprisingly deranged smile. Such an ugly smile on such a beautiful face. "I know where you live, Aran. The last few times I couldn't get to the evidence that easily because you were rooming with Soda Popinski and I couldn't quite bring myself to violate your privacy like this. Even scum like you deserve to have privacy. But not today. It's all going to go fine for me, I know it. I'm going to drag you over and make you watch me ransack your house and you're not going to do a goddamn thing about it."

Yawn and try to infuriate him a little. It's working, from what I can see. "Am I supposed to feel threatened about this?"

"You do know that you're going to get busted, Aran. You know that, right? You're going to pass out right here on the floor like some - some rabid _dog_ that just got put down, and I'm going to take you to your house and confiscate all the evidence and pass them onto the Referee and every newspaper I can find. Are you even listening to me?"

"Yeah, yeah. Why don't you pass me a pillow and duvet and violate my unconscious body while you're at it? Inconsiderate little fucker."

Narcis can be pretty threatening when he wants to be. This is one more thing I can't stick about him, that he actually has a double personality; one side of him is the one that everyone sees, posh and dignified and pretty idiotic overall if you look past his good looks and way of speaking. The other side can be pretty nasty, it only comes out when you punch his face or insult him enough or suggest that he's inept sexually or financially. Most people think it's a gimmick whenever he shows that side in the ring, because he does control it quite well - I'll give him that - and most people don't see the reason to insult him because they don't see him for what he really is. Both personalities are shrouded in that veil of faux-kindness and angelic smiles. And none of this explanation really matters because what I'm trying to say is that he doesn't take my comment well and kicks me on the shins extremely hard while I'm lying on the floor. He plays surprisingly dirty when he wants to. Unlike me - I play dirty all the time, but I make no secret of it and it's always quite obvious when I do. I'm easy to see through, and I know that, so the option of being a cheating bastard can really only apply to me in the ring. Narcis is just a sneaky little bitch anywhere he likes.

"I don't think you understand your situation," he says quietly. Takes his foot off my body. "I'm being serious here, Mr. Ryan. Why don't you just pass out already. At least you'll have some comfort in the notion that this will be the last time we do this to each other."

"The last time you do this to _me_," I correct, my voice sounding thick. "bloody 'ell. Man. I'm dying, Narcis. I am."

"Death won't get you out of trouble. It just makes it easier for me to expose you for what you are."

"No chance of taking me outside for a last breath of fresh air?"

"No, duh. I can't trust you. You might not be able to move, but you might have enough in you to alert someone."

"Jay-sus," I slur out. I can't see him anymore, my eyelids are getting so heavy. "tha's a bugger. I don' want me last moments to be spent lookin' at your ugly mug."

That does it for him. It's probably a blessing that I can't see him through my blurred vision and closing eyes, but I feel his foot connecting with my back all the same. He stomps on me hard with those boots and they're spiked as well for some weird reason. Probably just put them on to torment me. And it hurts quite a bit more than I thought it would be and I'm getting so sleepy so I'll just peace out on this floorboard for a bit night night

* * *

It's a surprisingly soft surface that I'm lying on when I come to. I know without opening my eyes or needing to move that Narcis has carried me out of the WVBA. I hope he's remembered to lock up properly - hey, call me irresponsible, but I care about the WVBA. For a moment I'm somewhat grateful to Narcis for providing whatever soft thing that I'm lying on; then that gratitude disappears almost immediately when I realize that I'm tied up at the ankles and wrists, and when I open my eyes there is only darkness and the sensation of my eyelids brushing against dark velvet. Of course.

I've got a splitting headache. Figures with the alcohol and drugs.

Footsteps. The blindfold is yanked off my head without warning; I curse and close my eyes again by reflex when too-bright light hits them and cuts straight to my migraine. From the sounds of shuffling around I guess that I'm with Narcis whether I like it or not. A peek out of my eyes prove me right.

Say hello, Narcis.

"Hello, Narcis."

"Good evening, Aran," he replies, sounding perfectly calm and casual. He's standing with his back to me at the other side of the room, staring at something. I see that it's a battered photo; it's not clear what it is of, but he's not paying attention to me for the time being. This doesn't seem right, though. This isn't my house.

"Had a nice sleep?" he asks without turning around. I check the ropes in the meanwhile; they're tight, but not so tight that I can't widen the gap a little. It's a good thing that he didn't bind my knees or use stronger rope. Then I'd have been screwed. I nod without words; better to take it slow.

"Well, that's good at least," he says and turns away again. I use the opportunity to test the slackness of the rope on my wrists; again, good enough for me to escape. Narcis must have relied on the drug to keep me sluggish for hours on end. It's the ankles that will need some help - but before I can do anything else (and I don't know what the hell he's thinking) he comes up to me and unfastens the rope around my legs. "get up."

I need to obey. I scowl purposefully to give the impression that I'm not enjoying this in the slightest - he probably gets off on that - and struggle off the bed. Almost fall off and crash to the floor, too, to make it look like I've been a lot more weakened than I have. I've always been a good actor. The bastard smirks at me, so while I'm having to resist the urge to strangle him to death, I still have the consolation that it's working. He gestures to a chair made of black mahogany with a tall back and sturdy legs, and I go and sit down on it - and before I can settle in, he twists my bound arms over so my wrists and arms are wrapped around the back of the chair and it hurts so goddamn much that I could scream but I don't.

"What kind of host are you," I blurt out. "ever heard of hospitality?"

Narcis fetches the rest of the rope and binds my waist to the chair. Why not my legs? "This isn't going to be much fun if I can't see you squirm," he says. Probably picked that up from a film or book or a cheap thriller. Charming, but I feel only thankfulness that he's such an idiot about this whole thing. "you've been in my house before, although that was two years or something back. It's not completely unfamiliar, is it?"

"I haven't been in here before."

"Welcome to my private study," Narcis bows mockingly and gestures to a corner. A cloth bag, bulging at the sides, lies there. "I _did_ go to your house, Aran, but it was a bit of a disappointment. All the evidence were so easy to find! I did tear up the place a little, but not as much as I would have if you'd been awake. It's not fun at all if you aren't awake to watch."

"What stopped you from staying there?"

"Because the stench of smoke and alcohol in your house in unbearable, and the phone started ringing, too," he says, his lip curling. Bitch. The gap between my wrists is growing now, though with all the wriggling I'm doing behind the chair. Perhaps I should be grateful to him for making things easier for me. "all that made me feel a tad uncomfortable. Lesser mortals and all that. I just packed it all in there, and got you back to my house. We're going to be alone tonight, my wife's away on business. Convenient for me, seeing as I was reminded of something while I was at yours."

Before I can ask what that is, he holds up the photo and nods at it. "This, I mean. Remember when this got taken?"

"Three years ago in that bar?"

"Indeed."

Two of us, smiling without a worry in the world. How we used to be, a long time ago, before him being a douchebag got to me for good. "But why take this out now? What does this have to do with anything?"

"You called me 'Narcie'," he answers, and I'm briefly taken aback at how suddenly sad he looks. Probably could explain it as an act or even a trick of the eye, but he looks so miserable that it sort of makes me feel like forgiving him for a lot of the stupid things he's done over the years. "it just... reminded me of-"

"Good times?"

"I don't need to answer to your prompts, Aran," he spits at me, a dark scowl suddenly etched into his features. There goes his double personality again. Le sigh. "I've no time for this! You had some papers and forms around that are proof for your illegal cheating in the ring. So I'm going to get copies now, call up some of my contacts, and maybe provide some commentary when I'm not calling anyone. And you can watch me do it."

Not if I can help it. My wrists are loose enough for me to work on the slack rope around my waist. "So you're going to have me disgraced and fired from the WVBA."

"That's the idea."

"Is there a way that I can make it up to you?"

"No," his blue eyes narrow at me. "I stopped believing your half-hearted apologies a long time ago."

Sigh. Look down in shame. "I'm sorry."

"There you go again! Didn't you hear a _word_ I just said-"

"No, Narcie," I tell him as gently as I can manage. Look up to his eyes. "_I really am_."

Narcis could use a few improvements in his kidnapping skills. First, he could try not drugging people without much knowledge of what said drug will do to them. Second. he could also try not bringing his victims to his own house just in case they turn the tables on you.

And third, he should learn a few more knot-tying techniques. I break free in an instant and pounce at him with all my strength. He barely has any time to yell before I grab him and smash his head on the chair. While he's stunned I push him into it, break out the remains of the rope and fasten his neck on the back of the chair with it. I don't intend to keep him that way, though - it's just to keep him from struggling any further while I bind him for good. It's all over in two minutes and I'm standing there, panting, with a throbbing headache and a thick pain in my shoulders - but I've come out spectacularly on top.

"It's just a taste of your own medicine," I tell him as I go over to the corner and retrieve the bag. "no hard feelings."

"I hate you," he spits at me, his limbs and torso bound helplessly to the chair. Ignore him, open the bag. Tip it upside down on the bed. A stack of papers containing records of backdoor deals fall out with a light thump, along with a bunch of horseshoes, along with brass knuckles and other things that I used to wear on my hands during matches. I can probably explain the rest to the higher-ups, but I need to get rid of the papers and the brass knuckles. Why didn't I do that myself a long time ago? I will never understand myself. Amongst the stack of papers is the contract I signed with the Referee himself, allowing me to use the headbutt in the ring. Could probably destroy him too, if it got out that he did illegal deals with boxers. He's a good man, fair and square, but I don't really know how many other deals like this he did with other boxers. I know I'm not the only done. Once I come clean, everybody else comes out, and he doesn't deserve to go yet. I like to think that I don't need to go as well, but maybe that's just arrogance talking. Hey, I'm narrating. Of course I'm biased.

But if someone has to go, Narcis can go in our stead.

"I can't believe how much of an idiot you are sometimes," I say to him, brandishing the papers in his direction. "you really thought that the Referee would believe you?"

"He's not the only one I thought of, fool," he sighs. "I did mention newspapers. The important thing is that you're taken down."

Smile. "So you did. Great work trying to bring down the main framework of the WVBA. If I go, the Referee himself goes, and along with us comes many other people in the Association. It's too risky, Narcis. It just makes you a selfish bastard for being willing to bring everyone down in order to get rid of me. Very Machiavellian."

"He was only _joking_ when he wrote 'The Prince'. You don't even know what that word means."

"I might not, but now I know what you've taken from my house, I can still derive a meaning from all of this somehow," I look towards my left, where a large fireplace is conveniently situated for my use. Plenty of coal and matches - that's another mistake of his, bringing me into a room where I can play with fire all I want. I take a match, flick it against the rough strip along the matchbox, and throw it into the fireplace which lights up instantly.

"What this all means," I continue, staring into his horrified eyes as deeply as I can. "is that no one will believe you."

Then I toss the papers into the fire and everything goes to hell.

Flames leap up fiercely in the fireplace and for a moment the sweltering heat gushes towards me. Take care not to flinch. I'm a bit freaked out myself at how fiercely everything is burning; they're just papers, there's no reason for them to be that flammable. My guess is that maybe I spilt some alcohol on a few sheets one day or Narcis just has a really powerful fireplace. But I'm reassured somewhat when the fire dies back down, creeping through the stack of papers in a slightly more normal pace. I give it maybe fifteen minutes for them to burn through. But regardless of my reactions, Narcis looks suitably horrified and scandalized, and that's really what matters the most.

"_What have you done_?" he shrieks, his usual demeanor slipping away. "_you fucking son of a bitch_!"

"Sorry about that," I can only say. I'm apologizing a lot nowadays for things that I shouldn't be apologizing for. I reach in my jacket and get out another cigarette. Then I sit on the bed and watch the documents burn for a minute or two while Narcis keeps yelling and struggling to get free. It is more satisfying to watch them squirm, after all. Just as you said, Narcis. When his voice is hoarse, I get off the bed and go to the bedside drawer where his mobile phone is resting. Deaf to his protests, I pick it up and check previous called records. Some are from Mrs. Prince and some are from unknown numbers. I check the messages inbox and smile - it looks as if Narcis has had two mistresses in the past month.

"Say, Narcis," I call towards him. "a mistress of yours coming over tomorrow night?"

"You get off my phone." he pants, too hoarse to scream at me. "you stop this_ right now_, do you-"

I ignore him and root through his drawers. They mostly just contain clothes and pictures of him and his wife, but the third drawer reveals a load of letters and pictures of him with other women, dated anywhere from two years back to just over a week ago.

This probably needs some expanding upon. Narcis was married to one of his longtime fans a few months ago. A model and a lovely one to boot, if a little plastic. But she didn't look stupid at all - I had problems with the marriage because it seemed clear to me that he wanted a show instead of a union between man and wife. It was widely publicized on papers and magazines that seldom run anything about the WVBA. He's only twenty this year, the two-timing bastard. The pictures are all with fans of him. If it had just been any women, there wouldn't be trouble within the WVBA should all these be leaked - but the Association has a strict policy on boxers being involved with their female fans. Bad influence and the risk of letting on secrets and all. We do still have our share of insane fans who try to ambush us in the changing rooms or try something incredibly stupid to get us to notice them. Narcis noticed, all right. He also has a lot of fans resentful of the fact that he's married and would speak up against him if given the chance.

"I bet your missus won't be too happy if I took those and leaked them to the press?"

"Aran, don't do this."

"You tried to do it to me, bastard. _Your_ evidence just happens to be here and _mine_ happens to be burning in the fire. You have more than me. Ever heard of equilibrium? Once those letters and pictures are printed, there would be enough to cover the both of us. Everyone needs secrets, after all."

"You can't prove anything," Jesus Christ. He's getting all hysterical again. I despise hysterics from men. "they're mostly just photos from ages ago, I wasn't even _married_ then-"

"But you have enough from after you were married, too. That's enough for a scandal. You know that."

Silence.

"Why do you hate me so much?" he sniffs.

"i don't hate you, Narcis," I explain tiredly but as patiently as I can manage. "I've never hated you. My life is just a lot harder when you're around. Difficult. Infinitely more irritating. You get my point? Having you in my life is like having syphilis. You don't notice for years at a time, and by the time you see yourself rotting away it's too late. And I sure as heck don't want the clap, Narcis."

"Well, I _never_! Honestly, I'm-"

"_I don't want fucking syphilis, Narcis. Nobody wants syphilis. Why don't you fucking listen_."

"I'm really not that bad, I'm being honest," he's got tears running down his face now and I have to look away. I hate all this drama. Why do I get myself into those things? "I don't know why you've always made me out to be such a monster."

"Narcie, you aren't a monster to me," I tell him without looking at him, but the use of his nickname will give the truth away. "just to your wife and some other people, and that should be enough. You cling to me even when I want you far away from me as possible. I don't know how else I'll be rid of you."

Silence. Again.

When he speaks up, he doesn't meet my eyes. "You're just... such an easy target, Aran. You broke off our friendship because you said I was shallow, all that time ago. You nearly broke me, you know that? I wanted to be better at you at something. All the women, all the fame. Just to get the better of you. To be honest, outside of the ring you're really irritating. You haven't got style or rhythm, you drink too much and you live like you were raised in a barn or something and you have a girl's name. You're just so easy to wind up, too. Despite all that I looked up to you."

I mull over what he said. It is true that I drink too much and I live sort of like a slob. Maybe Aran is a girl's name as well, but that's such a childish insult that I just brush it off. "I knew it was a sham marriage," I finally say. "I've got nothing more to say to you, Narcis. I guess I'll go. But seeing as it's-" check the clock, "-just past three, I guess you need some beauty sleep."

"Don't leave me! Please! We can talk this over!"

"We can't. We both lost that chance a long time ago. You have yourself a good life."

I approach the chair that he's tied up in. He flinches and looks up at me, blue eyes filled with fear. We stare at each other for what seems like hours.

"What if I come back?" he finally asks. That's all the trigger I need for me to start punching and kicking him until he's passed out. I make sure not to touch his face, because any more bruises than what he gained in the match today will look suspicious - I go for the weak spots, places that will knock him out cold, that I know the locations of because Soda taught me once.

As I said. Soda's a great head. Narcis is not.

It'd have been a lot easier if he hadn't screamed the whole way through, though. That might be because sometime during the beating I put out my cigarette on his shoulder, but it might just be him being a pansy. The rest of the procedure goes like this. Gather up all the evidence while he's watching with the last of his strength, stuff them in the bag. Untie him and let him fall to the floor. Drag him to the staircase and down most of the steps, but kick him over the last few so he falls unconscious. Go up, extinguish the fire, dig out all the remains of the coal and paper I can find and dump them in a spare plastic bag to throw away. Put his mobile phone in his hands and tidy up a little, taking away all evidence that I was ever there.

I leave the house with his screams ringing in my ears. At least I remember to lock the door and toss in the key through the open window.

* * *

It's around half five by the time I get to the WVBA. Fumbling for the key, I unlock the back door and slip into the still-darkened corridors, feeling my way around the walls until I reach the Referee's office. I slip a note typed on paper underneath the door detailing what I found. It literally only has those details but nothing else; I haven't given him my opinions on anything. When he wakes up in the morning he'll know. I spent the last hour meeting three journalists who regularly cover WVBA events and matches in their papers and handing copies of the evidence over, which they all appreciated me for and left immediately afterwards to use in their morning articles. I'm not about to flatter myself or Narcis and say that this is going to be more than a few days' worth of scandal, but it'll be enough. They got up at half four to meet me when I mentioned the story. Sucks to Narcis for making his picture-perfect life so public in the first place. When the sun comes up it'll be torn to bits. His wife will go crazy, his fans will go crazy... and the Association will be left with no choice but to let him go because he was stupid enough to get involved too deeply with his fans in the first place.

I walk back through the way I came and open the door to the changing rooms. I haven't slept, really (drugs don't count), and I don't want to do anything else other than to fall into bed and sleep. But I need to be awake. Me being away from the WVBA today will arouse suspicions. Just work until lunchtime then go home, that'll work.

Narcis's words echo in my mind as I dwell on that thought. _What if I come back?_

Make my way to his locker and take out the photo that he showed me. Narcis is smiling, his golden hair slightly shorter - definitely not like bananas then - and slicked back so charmingly that you can't help but smile. I'm also smiling, although I don't look too different compared to the way I am now. It's usually Narcis who dresses in expensive and dressy clothes when not in the ring, but I'm the one wearing a proper jacket and trousers in there, Narcis wearing a simple shirt and jeans instead. We're also pretty drunk in that photo, although you wouldn't know it just by looking. He bought me a four-leaf clover keyring afterwards that I still have. Don't know why I'm remembering this now.

He'll come back, of course he'll come back. But hopefully only to show up at his locker, empty it and leave the building for good. And leaving the WVBA for good means that he'll leave me alone for good.

Nobody believes a serial cheater and one with tarnished beauty at that.

I slide the photo of us in our better days together in his locker. Then I lean against it and cry and laugh for half an hour and I couldn't care less why. We looked like such assholes in that photo anyway, all happy and drunk to high heaven and loving life. We were real assholes then, indeed. Still are. Amazing how you think you've changed in the past years, and even more amazing to realize that you actually haven't.

Cue the laugh track.


End file.
